What is art?

WHAT IS ART?

is ART?

BY

LEO TOLSTOY

TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL MS.,
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY

AYLMER MAUDE

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->-•'*'•' * '^ !

NEW YORK
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY

1904

Jnfrofcucfton

WHAT thoughtful man has not been perplexed by problems
relating to art ?

An estimable and charming Russian lady I knew, felt
the charm of the music and ritual of the services of the
Russo-Greek Church so strongly that she wished the
peasants, in whom she was interested, to retain their blind
faith, though she herself disbelieved the church doctrines.
" Their lives are so poor and bare — they have so little art,
so little poetry and colour in their lives — let them at least
enjoy what they have; it would be cruel to undeceive
them," said she.

A false and antiquated view of life is supported by means
of art, and is inseparably linked to some manifestations of
art which we enjoy and prize. If the false view of life be
destroyed this art will cease to appear valuable. Is it best
to screen the error for the sake of preserving the art? Or
should the art be sacrificed for the sake of truthfulness ?

Again and again in history a dominant church has
utilised art to maintain its sway over men. Reformers
(early Christians, Mohammedans, Puritans, and others)
have perceived that art bound people to the old faith, and
they were angry with art. They diligently chipped the noses
from statues and images, and were wroth with ceremonies,
decorations, stained-glass windows, and processions. They
were even ready to banish art altogether, for, besides the

vi INTRODUCTION.

superstitions it upheld, they saw that it depraved and per
verted men by dramas, drinking-songs, novels, pictures, and
dances, of a kind that awakened man's lower nature. Yet
art always reasserted her sway, and to-day we are told by
many that art has nothing to do with morality — that "art
should be followed for art's sake."

I went one day, with a lady artist, to the Bodkin Art
Gallery in Moscow. In one of the rooms, on a table, lay a
book of coloured pictures, issued in Paris and supplied, I
believe, to private subscribers only. The pictures were
admirably executed, but represented scenes in the private
cabinets of a restaurant. Sexual indulgence was the chief
subject of each picture. Women extravagantly dressed and
partly undressed, women exposing their legs and breasts to
men in evening dress; men and women taking liberties
with each other, or dancing the " can-can," etc., etc. My
companion the artist, a maiden lady of irreproachable
conduct and reputation, began deliberately to look at these
pictures. I could not let my attention dwell on them with
out ill effects. Such things had a certain attraction for me,
and tended to make me restless and nervous. I ventured
to suggest that the subject-matter of the pictures was
objectionable. But my companion (who prided herself on
being an artist) remarked with conscious superiority, that
from an artist's point of view the subject was of no con
sequence. The pictures being very well executed were
artistic, and therefore worthy of attention and study.
Morality had nothing to do with art.

Here again is a problem. One remembers Plato's advice
not to let our thoughts run upon women, for if we do we
shall think clearly about nothing else, and one knows that
to neglect this advice is to lose tranquillity of mind; but
then one does not wish to be considered narrow, ascetic, or
inartistic, nor to lose artistic pleasures which those around
us esteem so highly.

INTRODUCTION. vii

Again, the newspapers last year printed proposals to
construct a Wagner Opera House, to cost, if I recollect
rightly, ;£ 100,000 — about as much as a hundred labourers
may earn by fifteen or twenty years' hard work. The
writers thought it would be a good thing if such an Opera
House were erected and endowed. But I had a talk lately
with a man who, till his health failed him, had worked as a
builder in London. He told me that when he was younger
he had been very fond of theatre-going, but, later, when he
thought things over and considered that in almost every
number of his weekly paper he read of cases of people
whose death was hastened by lack of good food, he felt it
was not right that so much labour should be spent on
theatres.

In reply to this view it is urged that food for the mind is
as important as food for the body. The labouring classes
work to produce food and necessaries for themselves and
for the cultured, while some of the cultured class produce
plays and operas. It is a division of labour. But this
again invites the rejoinder that, sure enough, the labourers
produce food for themselves and also food that the cultured
class accept and consume, but that the artists seem too
often to produce their spiritual food for the cultured only
— at any rate that a singularly small share seems to reach
the country labourers who work to supply the bodily
food! Even were the "division of labour" shown to be
a fair one, the " division of products " seems remarkably
one-sided.

Once again: how is it that often when a new work is
produced, neither the critics, the artists, the publishers, nor
the public, seem to know whether it is valuable or worth
less? Some of the most famous books in English litera
ture could hardly find a publisher, or were savagely derided
by leading critics; while other works once acclaimed as
masterpieces are now laughed at or utterly forgotten. A

viii INTRODUCTION.

play which nobody now reads was once passed off as a
newly-discovered masterpiece of Shakespear's, and was
produced at a leading London theatre. Are the critics
playing blind-man's buff? Are they relying on each other?
Is each following his own whim and fancy? Or do they
possess a criterion which they never reveal to those outside
the profession ?

Such are a few of the many problems relating to art which
present themselves to us all, and it is the purpose of this
book to enable us to reach such a comprehension of art,
and of the position art should occupy in our lives, as will
enable us to answer such questions.

The task is one of enormous difficulty. Under the cloak
of "art," so much selfish amusement and self-indulgence
tries to justify itself, and so many mercenary interests are
concerned in preventing the light from shining in upon the
subject, that the clamour raised by this book can only be
compared to that raised by the silversmiths of Ephesus
when they shouted, " Great is Diana of the Ephesians ! "
for about the space of two hours.

Elaborate theories blocked the path with subtle sophis
tries or ponderous pseudo-erudition. Merely to master
these, and expose them, was by itself a colossal labour,
but necessary in order to clear the road for a statement of
any fresh view. To have accomplished this work of exposure
in a few chapters is a wonderful achievement. To have
done it without making the book intolerably dry is more
wonderful still. In Chapter III. (where a rapid summary of
some sixty aesthetic writers is given) even Tolstoy's powers
fail to make the subject interesting, except to the specialist,
and he has to plead with his readers "not to be overcome
by dulness, but to read these extracts through."

Among the writers mentioned, English readers miss the
names of John Ruskin and William Morris, especially as so
much that Tolstoy says, is in accord with their views,

1NTR OD UCTION. ix

Of Ruskin, Tolstoy has a very high opinion. I have
heard him say, " I don't know why you English make
such a fuss about Gladstone — you have a much greater
man in Ruskin." As a stylist, too, Tolstoy speaks of
him with high commendation. Ruskin, however, though
he has written on art with profound insight, and has
said many things with which Tolstoy fully agrees, has,
I think, nowhere so systematised and summarised his view
that it can be readily quoted in the concise way which has
enabled Tolstoy to indicate his points of essential agree
ment with Home, Veron, and Kant. Even the attempt to
summarise Kant's aesthetic philosophy in a dozen lines will
hardly be of much service except to readers who have already
some acquaintance with the subject. For those to whom the
difference between "subjective" and "objective" percep
tions is fresh, a dozen pages would be none too much. And
to summarise Ruskin would be perhaps more difficult than
to condense Kant.

As to William Morris, we are reminded of his dictum that
art is the workman's expression of joy in his work, by
Tolstoy's "As soon as the author is not producing art for
his own satisfaction, — does not himself feel what he wishes
to express, — a resistance immediately springs up" (p. 154);
and again, " In such transmission to others of the feelings
that have arisen in him, he (the artist) will find his happi
ness" (p. 195). Tolstoy sweeps over a far wider range of
thought, but he and Morris are not opposed. Morris was
emphasising part of what Tolstoy is implying.

But to return to the difficulties of Tolstoy's task. There
is one, not yet mentioned, lurking in the hearts of most of
us. We have enjoyed works of "art." We have been
interested by the information conveyed in a novel, or we
have been thrilled by an unexpected "effect"; have
admired the exactitude with which real life has been

reproduced, or have had our feelings touched by allusions
b

x INTRODUCTION.

to, or reproductions of, works — old German legends, Greek
myths, or Hebrew poetry — which moved us long ago, as
they moved generations before us. And we thought all this
was "art." Not clearly understanding what art is, and
wherein its importance lies, we were not only attached to
these things, but attributed importance to them, calling
them "artistic" and "beautiful," without well knowing
what we meant by those words.

But here is a book that obliges us to clear our minds.
It challenges us to define "art" and "beauty," and to say
why we consider these things, that pleased us, to be specially
important. And as to beauty, we find that the definition
given by aesthetic writers amounts merely to this, that
"Beauty is a kind of pleasure received by us, not having
personal advantage for its object." But it follows from this,
that " beauty " is a matter of taste, differing among different
people, and to attach special importance to what pleases
me (and others who have had the same sort of training
that I have had) is merely to repeat the old, old mistake
which so divides human society; it is like declaring that my
race is the best race, my nation the best nation, my
church the best church, and my family the " best " family.
It indicates ignorance and selfishness.

But "truth angers those whom it does not convince;"
—people do not wish to understand these things. It seems,
at first, as though Tolstoy were obliging us to sacrifice some
thing valuable. We do not realise that we are being helped
to select the best art, but we do feel that we are being
deprived of our sense of satisfaction in Rudyard Kipling.

Both the magnitude and the difficulty of the task were
therefore very great, but they have been surmounted in a
marvellous manner. Of the effect this book has had on me
personally, I can only say that "whereas I was blind, now I
see." Though sensitive to some forms of art, I was, when
I took it up, much in the dark on questions of aesthetic

INTRODUCTION. xi

philosophy; when I had done with it, I had grasped the
main solution of the problem so clearly that — though I
waded through nearly all that the critics and reviewers had
to say about the book — I never again became perplexed
upon the central issues.

Tolstoy was indeed peculiarly qualified for the task he
has accomplished. It was after many years of work as a
writer of fiction, and when he was already standing in the
very foremost rank of European novelists, that he found
himself compelled to face, in deadly earnest, the deepest
problems of human life. He not only could not go on
writing books, but he felt he could not live, unless he
found clear guidance, so that he might walk sure-footedly
and know the purpose and meaning of his life. Not as a
mere question of speculative curiosity, but as a matter of
vital necessity, he devoted years to re-discover the truths
which underlie all religion.

To fit him for this task he possessed great knowledge of
men and books, a wide experience of life, a knowledge of
languages, and a freedom from bondage to any authority
but that of reason and conscience. He was pinned to
no Thirty-nine Articles, and was in receipt of no retaining
fee which he was not prepared to sacrifice. Another gift,
rare among men of his position, was his wonderful sincerity
and (due, I think, to that sincerity) an amazing power of
looking at the phenomena of our complex and artificial life
with the eyes of a little child; going straight to the real,
obvious facts of the case, and brushing aside the sophistries,
the conventionalities, and the "authorities" by which they
are obscured.

He commenced the task when he was about fifty years
of age, and since then (i.e., during the last twenty years) he
has produced nine philosophical or scientific works of first-
rate importance, besides a great many stories and short
articles.

xii INTRODUCTION.

These works, in chronological order, are —
My Confession.
A Criticism of Dogmatic Theology, which has never

been translated.

The Four Gospels Harmonised and Translated, of
which only two parts, out of three, have as yet
appeared in English.

What I Believe, sometimes called My Religion.
The Gospel in Brief.
What are we to do then? sometimes called in English

What to do?
On Life, which is not an easy work in the original,

and has not been satisfactorily translated.1
The Kingdom of God is within you; and
The Christian Teaching, which appeared after What

is Art ? though it was written before it.
To these scientific works I am inclined to add The
Kteutzer Sonata, with the Sequel or Postscript explaining
its purpose ; for though The Kreutzer Sonata is a story,
the understanding of sexual problems, dealt with explicitly
in the Sequel, is an integral part of that comprehension
of life which causes Tolstoy to admire Christ, Buddha, or
Francis of Assisi.

These ten works treat of the meaning of our life ; of the
problems raised by the fact that we approve of some things
and disapprove of others, and find ourselves deciding
which of two courses to pursue.

Religion, Government, Property, Sex, War, and all the
relations in which man stands to man, to his own con
sciousness, and to the ultimate source (which we call
God) from whence that consciousness proceeds — are ex
amined with the utmost frankness.

1 Bolton Hall has recently published a little work, Life, and Love,
and Death, with the object of making the philosophy contained in On
Life more easily accessible in English.

INTRODUCTION, xiii

And all this time the problems of Art: What is Art?
What importance is due to it ? How is it related to the
rest of life ? — were working in his mind. He was a
great artist, often upbraided for having abandoned his
art. He, of all men, was bound to clear his thoughts on
this perplexing subject, and to express them. His whole
philosophy of life — the "religious perception" to which,
with such tremendous labour and effort, he had attained,
forbade him to detach art from life, and place it in a water
tight compartment where it should not act on life or be
re-acted upon by life.

Life to him is rational. It has a clear aim and purpose,
discernible by the aid of reason and conscience. And no
human activity can be fully understood or rightly appre
ciated until the central purpose of life is perceived.

You cannot piece together a puzzle-map as long as you
keep one bit in a wrong place, but when the pieces all fit
together, then you have a demonstration that they are all in
their right places. Tolstoy used that simile years ago
when explaining how the comprehension of the text,
"resist not him that is evil," enabled him to perceive the
reasonableness of Christ's teaching, which had long baffled
him. So it is with the problem of Art. Wrongly under
stood, it will tend to confuse and perplex your whole com
prehension of life. But given the clue supplied by true
"religious perception," and you can place art so that it
shall fit in with a right understanding of politics, economics,
sex-relationships, science, and all other phases of human
activity.

The basis on which this work rests, is a perception of
the meaning of human life. This has been quite lost
sight of by some of the reviewers, who have merely mis
represented what Tolstoy says, and then demonstrated how
very stupid he would have been had he said what they
attributed to him. Leaving his premises and arguments un-

xiv INTRODUCTION.

touched, they dissent from various conclusions — as though it
were all a mere question of taste. They say that they are very
fond of things which Tolstoy ridicules, and that they can't
understand why he does not like what they like — which is
quite possible, especially if they have not understood
the position from which he starts. But such criticism
can lead to nothing. Discussions as to why one man likes
pears and another prefers meat, do not help towards
finding a definition of what is essential in nourishment;
and just so, " the solution of questions of taste in art does
not help to make clear what this particular human activity
which we call art really consists in."

The object of the following brief summary of a few main
points is to help the reader to avoid pitfalls into which
many reviewers have fallen. It aims at being no more than
a bare statement of the positions — for more than that, the
reader must turn to the book itself.

Let it be granted at the outset, that Tolstoy writes for
those who have "ears to hear." He seldom pauses to safe
guard himself against the captious critic, and cares little
for minute verbal accuracy. For instance, on page 144, he
mentions "Paris," where an English writer (even one who
knew to what an extent Paris is the art centre of France,
and how many artists flock thither from Russia, America,
and all ends of the earth) would have been almost sure to
have said "France," for fear of being thought to exaggerate.
One needs some alertness of mind to follow Tolstoy in his
task of compressing so large a subject into so small a
space. Moreover, he is an emphatic writer who says
what he means, and even, I think, sometimes rather
over-emphasises it. With this much warning let us pro
ceed to a brief summary of Tolstoy's view of art.

"Art is a human activity," and consequently does not
exist for its own sake, but is valuable or objectionable in
proportion as it is serviceable or harmful to mankind.

INTRODUCTION. xv

The object of this activity is to transmit to others feeling
the artist has experienced. Such feelings — intentionally
re-evoked and successfully transmitted to others — are the
subject-matter of all art. By certain external signs — move
ments, lines, colours, sounds, or arrangements of words — an
artist infects other people so that they share his feelings.
Thus "art is a means of union among men, joining them
together in the same feelings."

Chapters II. to V. contain an examination of various
theories which have taken art to be something other than
this, and step by step we are brought to the conclusion
that art is this, and nothing but this.

Having got our definition of art, let us first consider
art independently of its subject-matter, i.e., without asking
whether the feelings transmitted are good, bad, or in
different. Without adequate expression there is no art,
for there is no infection, no transference to others of the
author's feeling. The test of art is infection. If an
author has moved you so that you feel as he felt, if you
are so united to him in feeling that it seems to you that
he has expressed just what you have long wished U> express,
the work that has so infected you is a work of ai*t.

In this sense, it is true that art has nothing to do
with morality; for the test lies in the ''infection/' and not
in any consideration of the goodness or badness of the
emotions conveyed. Thus the test of art is an internal
one. The activity of art is based on the fact that a
man, receiving, through his sense of hearing' or sight,
another man's expression of feeling, is capable of experi
encing the emotion that moved the man who expressed it.
We all share the same common human nature, and in
this sense, at least, are sons of one Father. To take the
simplest example: a man laughs, and another, who hears,
becomes merry; or a man weeps, and another, who hears,
feels sorrow. Note in passing that it does not amount to

xvi INTRODUCTION.

art "if a man infects others directly, immediately, at the very
time he experiences the feeling; if he causes another man
to yawn when he himself cannot help yawning," etc. Art
begins when some one, with the object of making others share
his feeling^ expresses his feeling by certain external indica
tions.

Normal human beings possess this faculty to be infected
by the expression of another man's emotions. For a plain
man of unperverted taste, living in contact with nature,
with animals, and with his fellow-men — say, for "a country
peasant of unperverted taste, this is as easy as it is for
an animal of unspoilt scent to follow the trace he needs."
And he will know indubitably whether a work presented
to him does, or does not, unite him in feeling with the
author. But very many people "of our circle" (upper
and middle class society) live such unnatural lives, in
such conventional relations to the people around them,
and in such artificial surroundings, that they have lost
"that simple feeling, that sense of infection with another's
feeling — compelling us to joy in another's gladness, to
sorrow in another's grief, and to mingle souls with another
— which is the essence of art." Such people, therefore, have
no inner test by which to recognise a work of art; and they
will always be mistaking other things for art, and seeking
for external guides, such as the opinions of "recognised
authorities." Or they will mistake for art something that
produces a merely physiological effect — lulling or exciting
them; or some intellectual puzzle that gives them some
thing to think about.

But if most people of the "cultured crowd" are im
pervious to true art, is it really possible that a common
Russian country peasant, for instance, whose work-days are
filled with agricultural labour, and whose brief leisure is
largely taken up by his family life and by his participation
in the affairs of the village commune — is it possible that he

INTRODUCTION. xvii

can recognise and be touched by works of art ? Certainly
it is ! Just as in ancient Greece crowds assembled to hear
the poems of Homer, so to-day in Russia, as in many
countries and many ages, the Gospel parables, and much
else of the highest art, are gladly heard by the common
people. And this does not refer to any superstitious use
of the Bible, but to its use as literature.

Not only do normal, labouring country people possess the
capacity to be infected by good art — "the epic of Genesis,
folk-legends, fairy-tales, folk-songs, etc.," but they them
selves produce songs, stories, dances, decorations, etc.,
which are works of true art. Take as examples the works of
Burns or Bunyan, and the peasant women's song mentioned
by Tolstoy in Chapter XIV., or some of those melodies pro
duced by the negro slaves on the southern plantations, which
have touched, and still touch, many of us with the emotions
felt by their unknown and unpaid composers.

The one great quality which makes a work of art truly
contagious is its sincerity. If an artist is really actuated by
a feeling, and is strongly impelled to communicate that
feeling to other people — not for money or fame, or anything
else, but because he feels he must share it — then he will not
be satisfied till he has found a clear way of expressing it.
And the man who is not borrowing his feelings, but has
drawn what he expresses from the depths of his nature,
is sure to be original^ for in the same way that no two
people have exactly similar faces or forms, no two people
have exactly similar minds or souls.

That in briefest outline is what Tolstoy says about art,
considered apart from its subject-matter. And this is how
certain critics have met it. They say that when Tolstoy
says the test of art is internal, he must mean that it is
external. When he says that country peasants have in the
past appreciated, and do still appreciate, works of the
highest art, he means that the way to detect a work of

xviii INTRODUCTION.

art is to see what is apparently most popular among the
masses. Go into the streets or music-halls of the cities in
any particular country and year, and observe what is most
frequently sung, shouted, or played on the barrel-organs.
It may happen to be

" Tarara-boom-deay,"
or,

" We don't want to fight,
But, by Jingo, if we do."

But whatever it is, you may at once declare these songs to
be the highest musical art, without even pausing to ask to
what they owe their vogue — what actress, or singer, or
politician, or wave of patriotic passion has conduced to
their popularity. Nor need you consider whether that
popularity is not merely temporary and local. Tolstoy
has said that works of the highest art are understood by
unperverted country peasants — and here are things which
are popular with the mob, ergo, these things must be the
highest art.

The critics then proceed to say that such a test is utterly
absurd. And on this point I am able to agree with the critics.

Some of these writers commence their articles by saying
that Tolstoy is a most profound thinker, a great prophet,
an intellectual force, etc. Yet when Tolstoy, in his em
phatic way, makes the sweeping remark that "good art
always pleases every one," the critics do not read on to
find out what he means, but reply: "No! good art does
not please every one ; some people are colour-blind, and
some are deaf, or have no ear for music."

It is as though a man strenuously arguing a point were to
say, " Every one knows that two and two make four," and
a boy who did not at all see what the speaker was driving
at, were to reply : " No, our new-born baby doesn't know
it ! " It would distract attention from the subject in hand,
but it would not elucidate matters.

INTRODUCTION. xix

There is, of course, a verbal contradiction between the
statements that "good art always pleases every one"
(p. 100), and the remark concerning "people of our
circle," who, " with very few exceptions, artists and public
and critics, . . . cannot distinguish true works of art
from counterfeits, but continually mistake for real art the
worst and most artificial" (p. 151). But I venture to think
that any one of intelligence, and free from prejudice, read
ing this book carefully, need not fail to reach the author's
meaning.

A point to be carefully noted is the distinction between
science and art. "Science investigates and brings to
human perception such truths and such knowledge as
the people of a given time and society consider most
important. Art transmits these truths from the region
of perception to the region of -emotion" (p. 102). Science
is an "activity of the understanding which demands
preparation and a certain sequence of knowledge, so that
one cannot learn trigonometry before knowing geometry."
"The business of art," on the other hand, "lies just in
this — to make that understood and felt which, in the
form of an argument, might be incomprehensible and
inaccessible" (p. 102). It "infects any man whatever his
plane of development," and "the hindrance to under
standing the best and highest feelings (as is said in the
gospel) does not at all lie in deficiency of development
or learning, but, on the contrary, in false development
and false learning" (pp. 102, 103). Science and art are
frequently blended in one work — e.g., in the gospel elucida
tion of Christ's comprehension of life, or, to take a modern
instance, in Henry George's elucidation of the land question
in Progress and Poverty.

The class distinction to which Tolstoy repeatedly alludes
needs some explanation. The position of the lower classes
in England and in Russia is different. In Russia a much

xx INTRODUCTION.

larger number of people live on the verge of starvation ;
the condition of the factory-hands is much worse than
in England, and there are many glaring cases of brutal
cruelty inflicted on the peasants by the officials, the police,
or the military, — but in Russia a far greater proportion of
the population live in the country, and a peasant usually
has his own house, and tills his share of the communal
lands. The "unperverted country peasant" of whom
Tolstoy speaks is a man who perhaps suffers grievous
want when there is a bad harvest in his province, but
he is a man accustomed to the experiences of a natural
life, to the management of his own affairs, and to a
real voice in the arrangements of the village commune.
The Government interferes, from time to time, to collect
its taxes by force, to take the young men for soldiers, or
to maintain the " rights " of the upper classes ; but other
wise the peasant is free to do what he sees to be necessary
and reasonable. On the other hand, English labourers
are, for the most part, not so poor, they have more legal
rights, and they have votes; but a far larger number of
them live in towns and are engaged in unnatural occupa
tions, while even those that do live in touch with nature
are usually mere wage-earners, tilling other men's land,
and living often in abject submission to the farmer, the
parson, or the lady-bountiful. They are dependent on
an employer for daily bread, and the condition of a wage-
labourer is as unnatural as that of a landlord.

The tyranny of the St. Petersburg bureaucracy is more
dramatic, but less omnipresent — and probably far less fatal to
the capacity to enjoy art — than the tyranny of our respectable,
self-satisfied, and property-loving middle-class. I am there
fore afraid that we have no great number of "unperverted "
country labourers to compare with those of whom Tolstoy
speaks — and some of whom I have known personally.
But the truth Tolstoy elucidates lies far too deep in

INTRODUCTION. xxiii

human nature to be infringed by such differences or
local circumstance. Whatever those circumstances may
be, the fact remains that in proportion as a man approaches
towards the condition not only of " earning his subsistence
by some kind of labour," but of "living on all its sides
the life natural and proper to mankind," his capacity to
appreciate true art tends to increase. On the other hand,
when a class settles down into an artificial way of life, —
loses touch with nature, becomes confused in its perceptions
of what is good and what is bad, and prefers the condition
of a parasite to that of a producer, — its capacity to appre
ciate true art must diminish. Having lost all clear perception
of the meaning of life, such people are necessarily left
without any criterion which will enable them to distinguish
good from bad art, and they are sure to follow eagerly after
beauty, or "that which pleases them."

The artists of our society can usually only reach
people of the upper and middle classes. But who is the
great artist? — he who delights a select audience of his
own day and class, or he whose works link generation to
generation and race to race in a common bond of feeling ?•
Surely art should fulfil its purpose as completely as possible.
A work of art that united every one with the author,
and with one another, would be perfect art. Tolstoy, in
his emphatic way, speaks of works of "universal" art,
and (though the profound critics hasten to inform us that
no work of art ever reached everybody) certainly the
more nearly a work of art approaches to such ex
pression of feeling that every one may be infected by it
— the nearer (apart from all question of subject-matter)
it approaches perfection.

But now as to subject-matter. The subject-matter of art
consists of feelings which can be spread from man to man,
feelings which are " contagious " or "infectious." Is it of no-
importance what feelings increase and multiply among men ?

INTRODUCTION.

One man feels that submission to the authority of his
church, and belief in all that it teaches him, is good; another
is embued by a sense of each man's duty to think with his
own head — to use for his guidance in life the reason and
conscience given to him. One man feels that his nation
ought to wipe out in blood the shame of a defeat inflicted
on her; another feels that we are brothers, sons of one
spirit, and that the slaughter of man by man is always
wrong. One man feels that the most desirable thing in
life is the satisfaction obtainable by the love of women ;
another man feels that sex-love is an entanglement and a
snare, hindering his real work in life. And each of these,
if he possess an artist's gift of expression, and if the
feeling be really his own and sincere, may infect other
men. But some of these feelings will benefit and some
will harm mankind, and the more widely they are spread
the greater will be their effect.

Art unites men. Surely it is desirable that the feelings
in which it unites them should be "the best and highest
to which men have risen," or at least should not run
contrary to our perception of what makes for the well-
being of ourselves and of others. And our perception
of what makes for the well-being of ourselves and of
others is what Tolstoy calls our "religious perception."

Therefore the subject-matter of what we, in our day,
can esteem as being the best art, can be of two kinds
only — •

(1) Feelings flowing from the highest perception now
attainable by man of our right relation to our neighbour
and to the Source from which we come. Dickens'
" Christmas Carol," uniting us in a more vivid sense of
compassion and love, is a ready example of such art.

(2) The simple feelings of common life, accessible to
every one — provided that they are such as do not hinder
progress towards well-being. Art of this kind makes us

INTRODUCTION. xxiii

realise to how great an extent we already are members
one of another — sharing the feelings of one common human
nature.

The success of a very primitive novel — the story of
Joseph, which made its way into the sacred books of the
Jews, spread from land to land and from age to age, and
continues to be read to-day among people quite free from
bibliolatry — shows how nearly " universal " may be the
appeal of this kind of art. This branch includes all
harmless jokes, folk-stories, nursery rhymes, and even dolls,
if only the author or designer has expressed a feeling
(tenderness, pleasure, humour, or what not) so as to infect
others.

But how are we to know what are the " best " feelings ?
What is good? and what is evil? This is decided by
"religious perception." Some such perception exists in
every human being; there is always something he approves
of, and something he disapproves of. Reason and con
science are always present, active or latent, as long as
man lives. Miss Flora Shaw tells that the most degraded
cannibal she ever met, drew the line at eating his own
mother — nothing would induce him to entertain the thought,
his moral sense was revolted by the suggestion. In most
societies the " religious perception," to which they have
advanced, — the foremost stage in mankind's long march
towards perfection, which has been discerned, — has been
clearly expressed by some one, and more or less con
sciously accepted as an ideal by the many. But there
are transition periods in history when the worn-out for
mularies of a past age have ceased to satisfy men, or
have become so incrusted with superstitions that their
original brightness is lost. The ''religious perception"
that is dawning may not yet have found such expression as
to be generally understood, but for all that it exists, and
shows itself by compelling men to repudiate beliefs that

xxiv INTRODUCTION.

satisfied their forefathers, the outward and visible signs of
which are still endowed and dominant long after their spirit
has taken refuge in temples not made with hands.

At such times it is difficult for men to understand each
other, for the very words needed to express the deepest
experiences of men's consciousness mean different things to
different men. So among us to-day, to many minds faith
means credulity^ and God suggests a person of the male
sex, father of one only-begotten son, and creator of the
universe.

This is why Tolstoy's clear and rational " religious per
ception," expressed in the books named on a previous page,
is frequently spoken of by people who have not grasped it,
as " mysticism."

The narrow materialist is shocked to find that Tolstoy
will not confine himself to the "objective" view of life.
Encountering in himself that "inner voice" which compels
us all to choose between good and evil, Tolstoy refuses to be
diverted from a matter which is of immediate and vital
importance to him, by discussions as to the derivation of
the external manifestations of conscience which biologists
are able to detect in remote forms of life. The real mystic,
on the other hand, shrinks from Tolstoy's desire to try all
things by the light of reason, to depend on nothing vague,
and to accept nothing on authority. The man who does
not trust his own reason, fears that life thus squarely faced
will prove less worth having than it is when clothed in
mist.

In this work, however, Tolstoy does not recapitulate at
length what he has said before. He does not pause to
re-explain why he condemns Patriotism — i.e., each man's
preference for the predominance of his own country, which
leads to the murder of man by man in war ; or Churches,
which are sectarian — i.e., which striving' to assert that your
doxy is heterodoxy, but that our doxy is orthodoxy, make

INTRQDUCT1ON.

external authorities (Popes, Bibles, Councils) supreme, and
cling to superstitions (their oivn miracles, legends, and
myths), thus separating themselves from communion with
the rest of mankind. Nor does he re-explain why he (like
Christ) says " pitiable is your plight — ye rich," who live
artificial lives, maintainable only by the unbrotherly use of
force (police; and soldiers), but blessed are ye poor — who,
by your way of life, are within easier reach of brotherly con
ditions, if you will but trust to reason and conscience, and
change the direction of your hearts and of your labour, —
working no more primarily from fear or greed, but seeking
first the kingdom of righteousness, in which all good things
will be added unto you. He merely summarises it all in a
few sentences, defining the " religious perception " of to-day,
which alone can decide for us "the degree of importance
both of the feelings transmitted by art and of the informa
tion transmitted by science."

" The religious perception of our time, in its widest and
most practical application, is the consciousness that our
well-being, both material and spiritual, individual and
collective, temporal and eternal, lies in the growth of
brotherhood among men — in their loving harmony with
one another" (p. 159).

And again :

" However differently in form people belonging to our
Christian world may define the destiny of man ; whether
they see it in human progress in whatever sense of the
words, in the union of all men in a socialistic realm, or in
the establishment of a commune; whether they look forward
to the union of mankind under the guidance of one universal
Church, or to the federation of the world, — however
various in form their definitions of the destination of human
life may be, all men in our times already admit that the
highest well-being attainable by men is to be reached by
their union with one another" (p. 188).

xxvi INTRODUCTION.

*

This is the foundation on which the whole work is based.

It follows necessarily from this perception that we should
consider as most important in science "investigations into
the results of good and bad actions, considerations of the
reasonableness or unreasonableness of human institutions
and beliefs, considerations of how human life should be
lived in order to obtain the greatest well-being for each; as
to what one may and ought, and what one cannot and
should not believe; how to subdue one's passions, and how
to acquire the habit of virtue." This is the science that
" occupied Moses, Solon, Socrates, Epictetus, Confucius,
Mencius, Marcus Aurelius, Spinoza, and all those who have
taught men to live a moral life," and it is precisely the kind
of scientific investigation to which Tolstoy has devoted most
of the last twenty years, and for the sake of which he is
often said to have " abandoned art."

Since science, like art, is a " human activity," that science
best deserves our esteem, best deserves to be "chosen,
tolerated, approved, and diffused," which treats of what is
supremely important to man ; which deals with urgent,
vital, inevitable problems of actual life. Such science as
this brings "to the consciousness of men the truths that
flow from the religious perception of our times," and
"indicates the various methods of applying this conscious
ness to life." "Art should transform this perception into
feeling."

The " science " which is occupied in "pouring liquids
from one jar into another, or analysing the spectrum, or
cutting up frogs and porpoises," is no use for rendering such
guidance to art, though capable of practical applications
which, under a more righteous system of society, might
greatly have lightened the sufferings of mankind.

Naturally enough, the last chapter of the book deals with
the relation between science and art. And the conclusion
is that :

INTRODUCTION. xxvii

" The destiny of art in our time is to transmit from the
realm of reason to the realm of feeling the truth that well-
being for men consists in being united together, and to set
up, in place of the existing reign of force, that kingdom of
God, i.e. of love, which we all recognise to be the highest
aim of human life."

And this art of the future will not be poorer, but far
, richer, in subject-matter than the art of to-day. From the
lullaby — that will delight millions of people, generation after
generation — to the highest religious art, dealing with strong,
rich, and varied emotions flowing from a fresh outlook upon
life and all its problems— the field open for good art is
enormous. With so much to say that is urgently important
to all, the art of the future will, in matter of form also, be
far superior to our art in " clearness, beauty, simplicity, and
compression " (p. 194).

For beauty (i.e., "that which pleases'"') — though it depends
on taste, and can furnish no criterion for art — will be a
natural characteristic of work done, not for hire, nor even
for fame, but because men, living a natural and healthy life,
wish to share the " highest spiritual strength which passes
through them " with the greatest possible number of others.
The feelings such an artist wishes to share, he will transmit
in a way that will please him, and will please other men
who share his nature.

Morality is in the nature of things — we cannot escape it.

In a society where each man sets himself to obtain
wealth, the difficulty of obtaining an honest living tends to
become greater and greater. The more keenly a society
pants to obtain "that which pleases," and puts this for
ward as the first and great consideration, the more puerile
and worthless will their art become. But in a society which
sought, primarily, for right relations between its members,
an abundance would easily be obtainable for all ; and
when " religious perception " guides a people's art — beauty

xxviii INTRODUCTION.

inevitably results, as has always been the case when men
have seized a fresh perception of life and of its purpose.

An illustration which Tolstoy struck out of the work
while it was being printed, may serve to illustrate how, with
the aid of the principles explained above, we may judge of
the merits of any work professing to be art.

Take Romeo and Juliet. The conventional view is that
Shakespear is the greatest of artists, and that Romeo and
Juliet is one of his good plays. Why this is so nobody can
tell you. It is so : that is the way certain people feel about
it. They are " the authorities," and to doubt their dictum
is to show that you know nothing about art. Tolstoy does
not agree with them in their estimate of Shakespear,
therefore Tolstoy is wrong !

But now let us apply Tolstoy's view of art to Romeo
and Juliet. He does not deny that it infects. " Let us
admit that it is a work of art, that it infects (though it is so
artificial that it can infect only those who have been care
fully educated thereunto); but what are the feelings it
transmits ? "

That is to say, judging by the infernal test, Tolstoy
admits that Romeo and Juliet unites him to its author and
to other people in feeling. But the work is very far from
being one of " universal " art — only a small minority of
people ever have cared, or ever will care, for it. Even in
England, or even in the layer of European society it
is best adapted to reach, it only touches a minority, and
does not approach the universality attained by the story of
Joseph and many pieces of folk-lore.

But perhaps the subject-matter, the feeling with which
Romeo and Juliet infects those whom it does reach, lifts it
into the class of the highest religious art? Not so. The
feeling is one of the attractiveness of "love at first sight."
A girl fourteen years old and a young man meet at an

INTRODUCTION.

aristocratic party, where there is feasting and pleasure and
idleness, and, without knowing each other's minds, they
fall in love as the birds and beasts do. If any feeling is
transmitted to us, it is the feeling that there is a pleasure in
these things. Somewhere, in most natures, there dwells,
dominant or dormant, an inclination to let such physical
sexual attraction guide our course in life. To give it a plain
name, it is "sensuality." "How can I, father or mother of
a daughter of Juliet's age, wish that those foul feelings
which the play transmits should be communicated to my
daughter? And if the feelings transmitted by the play
are bad, how can I call it good in subject-matter?"

But, objects a friend, the moral of Romeo and Juliet is
excellent. See what disasters followed from the physical
"love at first sight." But that is quite another matter.
It is the feelings with which you are infected when reading,
and not any moral you can deduce, that is subject-matter
of art. Pondering upon the consequences that flow from
Romeo and Juliet's behaviour may belong to the domain
of moral science, but not to that of art.

I have hesitated to use an illustration Tolstoy had struck
out, but I think it serves its purpose. No doubt there are
other, subordinate, feelings (e.g. humour) to be found in
Romeo and Juliet ; but many quaint conceits that are in
genious, and have been much admired, are not, I think,
infectious.

Tried by such tests, the enormous majority of the things
we have been taught to consider great works of art are
found wanting. Either they fail to infect (and attract
merely by being interesting, realistic, effectful, or by bor
rowing from others), and are therefore not works of art at
all; or they are works of "exclusive art," bad in form and
capable of infecting only a select audience trained and
habituated to such inferior art ; or they are bad in subject-
matter, transmitting feelings harmful to mankind.

xxx INTRODUCTION,

Tolstoy does not shrink from condemning his own
artistic productions; with the exception of two short stories,
he tells us they are works of bad art. Take, for instance,
the novel Resurrection, which is now appearing, and of
which he has, somewhere, spoken disparagingly, as being
"written in my former style," and being therefore bad art.
What does this mean ? The book is a masterpiece in its
own line ; it is eagerly read in many languages ; it un
doubtedly infects its readers, and the feelings transmitted
are, in the main, such as Tolstoy approves of — in fact, they are
the feelings to which his religious perception has brought
him. If lust is felt in one chapter, the reaction follows
as inevitably as in real life, and is transmitted with great
artistic power. Why a work of such rare merit does not
satisfy Tolstoy, is because it is a work of "exclusive
art," laden with details of time and place. It has not the
" simplicity and compression" necessary in works of "uni
versal " art. Things are mentioned which might apparently
be quite well omitted. The style, also, is not one of great
simplicity; the sentences are often long and involved, as is
commonly the case in Tolstoy's writings. It is a novel
appealing mainly to the class that has leisure for novel read
ing because it neglects to produce its own food, make its own
clothes, or build its own houses. If Tolstoy is stringent in
his judgment of other artists, he is more stringent still in
his judgment of his own artistic works' Had Resurrec
tion been written by Dickens, or by Hugo, Tolstoy would, I
think, have found a place for it (with whatever reservations)
among the examples of religious art. For indeed, strive as
we may to be clear and explicit, our approval and dis
approval is a matter of degree. The thought which under
lay the remark: " Why callest thou me good? none is good,
save one, even God," applies not to man only, but to all
things human.

What is Art? itself is a work of science — though

INTRODUCTION.

many passages, and even some whole chapters, appeal to us
as works of art, and we feel the contagion of the author's hope,
his anxiety to serve the cause of truth and love, his indig
nation (sometimes rather sharply expressed) with what
blocks the path of advance, and his contempt for much
that the "cultured crowd," in our erudite, perverted society,
have persuaded themselves, and would fain persuade others,
is the highest art.

One result which follows inevitably from Tolstoy's view
(and which illustrates how widely his views differ from the
fashionable aesthetic mysticism), is that art is not stationary
but progressive. It is true that our highest religious per
ception found expression eighteen hundred years ago, and
then served as the basis of an art which is still un
matched; and similar cases can be instanced from the
East. But allowing for such great exceptions, — to which,
not inaptly, the term of " inspiration " has been specially
applied,— the subject-matter of art improves, though long
periods of time may have to be considered in order to
make this obvious. Our power of verbal expression, for
instance, may now be no better than it was in the days of
David, but we must no longer esteem as good in subject-
matter poems which appeal to the Eternal to destroy a
man's private or national foes ; for we have reached a
"religious perception" which bids us have no foes, and
the ultimate source (undefinable by us) from which this
consciousness has come, is what we mean when we speak
of God.

AYLMER MAUDE.
WICKHAM'S FARM,

NEAR DANBURY, ESSEX,
2yd March 1899.

THIS book of mine, "What is Art?" appears now for the
first time in its true form. More than one edition has
already been issued in Russia, but in each case it has been
so mutilated by the "Censor," that I request all who are
interested in my views on art only to judge of them by
the work in its present shape. The causes which led to
the publication of the book — with my name attached to
it — in a mutilated form, were the following : — In accord
ance with a decision I arrived at long ago, — not to submit
my writings to the " Censorship " (which I consider to be
an immoral and irrational institution), but to print them
only in the shape in which they were written, — I intended
not to attempt to print this work in Russia. However,
my good acquaintance Professor Grote, editor of a Moscow
psychological magazine, having heard of the contents of my
work, asked me to print it in his magazine, and promised
me that he would get the book through the " Censor's "
office unmutilated if I would but agree to a few very
unimportant alterations, merely toning down certain ex
pressions. I was weak enough to agree to this, and it
has resulted in a book appearing, under my name, from
which not only have some essential thoughts been excluded,
but into which the thoughts of other men — even thoughts
utterly opposed to my own convictions — have been intro
duced.

xxxiv AUTHORS PREFACE.

The thing occurred in this way. First, Grote softened
my expressions, and in some cases weakened them. For
instance, he replaced the words : always by sometimes, all
hy some, Church religion by Roman Catholic religion,
"Mother of God" by Madonna, patriotism by pseudo-
patriotism, palaces by palatii,1 etc., and I did not consider
it necessary to protest. But when the book was already
in type, the Censor required that whole sentences should
be altered, and that instead of what I said about the evil
of landed property, a remark should be substituted on the
evils of a landless proletariat.2 I agreed to this also and
to some further alterations. It seemed not worth while
to upset the whole affair for the sake of one sentence, and
when one alteration had been agreed to it seemed not
worth while to protest against a second and a third. So,
little by little, expressions crept into the book which
altered the sense and attributed things to me that I could
not have wished to say. So that by the time the book
was printed it had been deprived of some part of its
integrity and sincerity. But there was consolation in the
thought that the book, even in this form, if it contains
something that is good, would be of use to Eussian readers
whom it would otherwise not have reached. Things, how-

1 Tolstoy's remarks on Church religion were re- worded so as to seem
to relate only to the Western Church, and his disapproval of luxurious
life was made to apply not, say, to Queen Victoria or Nicholas n.,
but to the Caesars or the Pharaohs.— Trans.

2 The Russian peasant is usually a member of a village commune,
and has therefore a right to a share in the land belonging to the
village. Tolstoy disapproves of the order of society which allows
less land for the support of a whole village full of people than is
sometimes owned by a single landed proprietor. The "Censor" will
not allow disapproval of this state of things to be expressed, but is
prepared to admit that the laws and customs, say, of England —
where a yet more extreme form of landed property exists, and the
men who actually labour on the land usually possess none of it —
deserve criticism. — Trans.

AUTHOR'S PREFACE. xxxv

ever, turned out otherwise. Nous comptions sans notre
Iwte. After the legal term of four days had already elapsed,
the book was seized, and, on instructions received from
Petersburg, it was handed over to the "Spiritual Censor."
Then Grote declined all further participation in the affair,
and the " Spiritual Censor " proceeded to do what he would
with the book. The " Spiritual Censorship " is one of the
most ignorant, venal, stupid, and despotic institutions in
Russia. Books which disagree in any way with the recog
nised state religion of Russia, if once it gets hold of them,
are almost always totally suppressed and burnt; which is
what happened to all my religious works when attempts
were made to print them in Russia. Probably a similar
fate would have overtaken this work also, had not the
editors of the magazine employed all means to save it.
The result of their efforts was that the " Spiritual Censor,"
a priest who probably understands art and is interested in
art as much as I understand or am interested in church
services, but who gets a good salary for destroying whatever
is likely to displease his superiors, struck out all that
seemed to him to endanger his position, and substituted
his thoughts for mine wherever he considered it necessary
to do so. For instance, where I speak of Christ going to
the Cross for the sake of the truth He professed, the
"Censor" substituted a statement that Christ died for
mankind, i.e. he attributed to me an assertion of the
dogma of the Redemption, which I consider to be one
of the most untrue and harmful of Church dogmas. After
correcting the book in this way, the "Spiritual Censor"
allowed it to be printed.

To protest in Russia is impossible, no newspaper would
publish such a protest, and to withdraw my book from the
magazine and place the editor in an awkward position with
the public was also not possible.

So the matter has remained. A book has appeared under

xxxvi AUTHORS PREFACE.

my name containing thoughts attributed to me which are
not mine.

I was persuaded to give my article to a Eussian magazine,
in order that my thoughts, which may he useful, should
become the possession of Eussian readers; and the result
has been that my name is affixed to a work from which
it might be assumed that I quite arbitrarily assert things
contrary to the general opinion, without adducing my
reasons ; that I only consider false patriotism bad, but patriot
ism in general a very good feeling ; that I merely deny the
absurdities of the Eoman Catholic Church and disbelieve
in the Madonna, but that I believe in the Orthodox Eastern
faith and in the " Mother of God " ; that I consider all the
writings collected in the Bible to be holy books, and see
the chief importance of Christ's life in the Eedemption of
mankind by his death.

I have narrated all this in such detail because it strik
ingly illustrates the indubitable truth, that all compromise
with institutions of which your conscience disapproves, —
compromises which are usually made for the sake of the
general good, — instead of producing the good you expected,
inevitably lead you not only to acknowledge the institution
you disapprove of, but also to participate in the evil that
institution produces.

I am glad to be able by this statement at least to do
something to correct the error into which I was led by
my compromise.

I have also to mention that besides reinstating the parts
excluded by the Censor from the Eussian editions, other
corrections and additions of importance have been made in
this edition.

LEO TOLSTOY.

29M March 1898.

INTKODITCTION .
AUTHOR'S PREFACE

CHAPTER I

Time and labour spent on art — Lives stunted in its service —
Morality sacrificed to and anger justified by art — The
rehearsal of an opera described .... 1

CHAPTER II

Does art compensate for so much evil ? — What is art ? — Con
fusion of opinions — Is it "that which produces beauty" ?
— The word " beauty" in Russian — Chaos in aesthetics . 9

CHAPTER III

Summary of various aesthetic theories and definitions, from

Baumgarten to to-day ..... 20

CHAPTER IV

Definitions of art founded on beauty — Taste not definable —
A clear definition needed to enable us to recognise works
of art . . . . . .38

CHAPTER Y

Definitions not founded on beauty — Tolstoy's definition — The
extent and necessity of art— How people in the past have
distinguished good from bad in art 46

xxxviii CONTENTS.

CHAPTER VI

PAGE

How art for pleasure has come into esteem — Religions indicate
what is considered good and bad— Church Christianity —
The Renaissance — Scepticism of the upper classes — They
confound beauty with goodness .... 53

CHAPTER VII

An aesthetic theory framed to suit this view of life . . 61

CHAPTER VIII

Who have adopted it ?— Real art needful for all men — Our art
too expensive, too unintelligible, and too harmful for the
masses — The theory of "the elect " in art . . 67

CHAPTER IX

Perversion of our art — It has lost its natural subject-matter — •
Has no flow of fresh feeling — Transmits chiefly three base
emotions ....... 73

CHAPTER X

Loss of comprehensibility — Decadent art — Recent French art
— Have we a right to say it is bad and that what we like
is good art ? — The highest art has always been compre
hensible to normal people — What fails to infect normal
people is not art . . . . .79

CHAPTER XI

Counterfeits of art produced by : Borrowing ; Imitating ;
Striking ; Interesting — Qualifications needful for produc
tion of real works of art, and those sufficient for produc
tion of counterfeits ..... 106

CHAPTER XII

Causes of production of counterfeits — Professionalism — Criti
cism — Schools of art ..... 118

CHAPTER XIII

Wagner's " Nibelung's Ring "a type of counterfeit art — Its

success, and the reasons thereof . . . .128

CONTENTS. xxxix

CHAPTER XIV

PAGE

Truths fatal to preconceived views are not readily recognised
— Proportion of works of art to counterfeits — Perversion
of taste and incapacity to recognise art — Examples . 143-

CHAPTER XV

The quality of art, considered apart from its subject-
matter — The sign of art : infectiousness — Incomprehen
sible to those whose taste is perverted — Conditions of
infection : Individuality ; Clearness ; Sincerity . . 152

CHAPTER XVI

The quality of art, considered according to its subject-
matter— The better the feeling the better the art— The
cultured crowd — The religious perception of our age — The
new ideals put fresh demands to art— Art unites —
Religious art — Universal art — Both co-operate to one
result — The new appraisement of art— Bad art — Examples
of art — -How to test a work claiming to be art . . 156

CHAPTER XVII

Results of absence of true art — Results of perversion of art :
Labour and lives spent on what is useless and harmful —
The abnormal life of the rich — Perplexity of children and
plain folk — Confusion of right and wrong — Nietzsche and
Redbeard — Superstition, Patriotism, and Sensuality . 175

T

CHAPTER XVIII

lie purpose of human life is the brotherly union of man — Art

must be guided by this perception. . . . 187

CHAPTER XIX

I The art of the future not a possession of a select minority, but

a means towards perfection and unity . . .192

CHAPTER XX

The connection between science and art — The mendacious
sciences ; the trivial sciences — Science should deal with
the great problems of human life, and serve as a basis
for ait 200

xl CONTENTS.

APPENDICES

PAGB

Appendix I , . . - • • • 215

., II .... 218

.,111 • 226

IV . . 232

TAKE up any one of our ordinary newspapers, and you
will find a part devoted to the theatre and music. In
almost every number you will find a description of some
art exhibition, or of some particular picture, and you will
always find reviews of new works of art that have appeared,
of volumes of poems, of short stories, or of novels.

Promptly, and in detail, as soon as it has occurred, an
account is published of how such and such an actress or
actor played this or that role in such and such a drama,
comedy, or opera ; and of the merits of the performance, as
well as of the contents of the new drama, comedy, or opera,
with its defects and merits. With as much care and detail,
or even more, we are told how such and such an artist
has sung a certain piece, or has played it on the piano or
violin, and what were the merits and defects of the piece
and of the performance. In every large town there is sure
to be at least one, if not more than one, exhibition of new
pictures, the merits and defects of which are discussed in
the utmost detail by critics and connoisseurs.

New novels and poems, in separate volumes or in the
magazines, appear almost every day, and the newspapers
consider it their duty to give their readers detailed accounts
of these artistic productions.

2 WHAT IS ART?

For the support of art in Kussia (where for the education
of the people only a hundredth part is spent of what would
be required to give everyone the opportunity of instruction)
the Government grants millions of roubles in subsidies to
academies, conservatoires and theatres. In France twenty
million francs are assigned for art, and similar grants are
made in Germany and England.

In every large town enormous buildings are erected for
museums, academies, conservatoires, dramatic schools, and for
performances and concerts. Hundreds of thousands of work
men, — carpenters, masons, painters, joiners, paperhangers,
tailors, hairdressers, jewellers, moulders, type-setters, — spend
their whole lives in hard labour to satisfy the demands of
art, so that hardly any other department of human activity,
except the military, consumes so much energy as this.

Not only is enormous labour spent on this activity, but in
it, as in war, the very lives of men are sacrificed. Hundreds
of thousands of people devote their lives from childhood to
learning to twirl their legs rapidly (dancers), or to touch
notes and strings very rapidly (musicians), or to draw with
paint and represent what they see (artists), or to turn every
phrase inside out and find a rhyme to every word. And these
people, often very kind and clever, and capable of all sorts
of useful labour, grow savage over their specialised and
stupefying occupations, and become one-sided and self-
complacent specialists, dull to all the serious phenomena of
life, and skilful only at rapidly twisting their legs, their
tongues, or their fingers.

But even this stunting of human life is not the worst. I
remember being once at the rehearsal of one of the most
ordinary of the new operas which are produced at all the
opera houses of Europe and America.

I arrived when the first act had already commenced. To
reach the auditorium I had to pass through the stage
entrance. By dark entrances and passages, I was led through

WHAT IS ART? 3

the vaults of an enormous building past immense machines
for changing the scenery and for illuminating ; and there in
the gloom and dust I saw workmen busily engaged. One
of these men, pale, haggard, in a dirty blouse, with dirty,
work-worn hands and cramped fingers, evidently tired and
out of humour, went past me, angrily scolding another man.
Ascending by a dark stair, I came out on the boards behind
the scenes. Amid various poles and rings and scattered
scenery, decorations arid curtains, stood and moved dozens,
if not hundreds, of painted and dressed-up men, in costumes
fitting tight to their thighs and calves, and also women, as
usual, as nearly nude as might be. These were all singers,
or members of the chorus, or ballet-dancers, awaiting their
turns. My guide led me across the stage and, by means of
a bridge of boards, across the orchestra (in which perhaps
a hundred musicians of all kinds, from kettle-drum to flute
and harp, were seated), to the dark pit-stalls.

On an elevation, between two lamps with reflectors, and
in an arm-chair placed before a music-stand, sat the director
of the musical part, baton in hand, managing the orchestra
and singers, and, in general, the production of the whole
opera.

The performance had already commenced, and on the
stage a procession of Indians who had brought home a bride
was being represented. Besides men and women in costume,
two other men in ordinary clothes bustled and ran about on
the stage ; one was the director of the dramatic part, and
the other, who stepped about in soft shoes and ran from
place to place with unusual agility, was the dancing-master,
whose salary per month exceeded what ten labourers earn
in a year.

These three directors arranged the singing, the orchestra,
and the procession. The procession, as usual, was enacted
by couples, with tinfoil halberds on their shoulders. They
all came from one place, and walked round and round again,

4 WHAT is ART?

and then stopped. The procession took a long time to
arrange : first the Jndians with halberds came on too late ;
then too soon ; then at the right time, but crowded together
at the exit ; then they did not crowd, but arranged themselves
badly at the sides of the stage ; and each time the whole
performance was stopped and recommenced from the be
ginning. The procession was introduced by a recitative,
delivered by a man dressed up like some variety of Turk,
who, opening his mouth in a curious way, sang, " Home I
bring the bri-i-ide." He sings and waves his arm (which is
of course bare) from under his mantle. The procession
commences, but here the French horn, in the accompaniment
of the recitative, does something wrong ; and the director,
with a shudder as if some catastrophe had occurred, raps
with his stick on the stand. All is stopped, and the
director, turning to the orchestra, attacks the French horn,
scolding him in the rudest terms, as cabmen abuse each
other, for taking the wrong note. And again the whole
thing recommences. The Indians with their halberds
again come on, treading softly in their extraordinary boots ;
again the singer sings, "Home I bring the bri-i-ide." But
here the pairs get too close together. More raps with
the stick, more scolding, and a recommencement. Again,
"Home I bring the bri-i-ide," again the same gesticulation
with the bare arm from under the mantle, and again the
couples, treading softly with halberds on their shoulders,
some with sad and serious faces, some talking and smiling,
arrange themselves in a circle and begin to sing. All
seems to be going well, but again the stick raps, and the
director, in a distressed and angry voice, begins to scold
the men and women of the chorus. It appears that when
singing they had omitted to raise their hands from time to
time in sign of animation. "Are you all dead, or what?
Cows that you are ! Are you corpses, that you can't move 1 "
Again they re-commence, " Home I bring the bri-i-ide," and

WHAT IS ART? 5

again, with sorrowful faces, the chorus women sing, first one
and then another of them raising their hands. But two
chorus-girls speak to each other, — again a more vehement
rapping with the stick. " Have you come here to talk ? Can't
you gossip at home? You there in red breeches, come
nearer. Look towards me ! Recommence ! " Again, " Home
I bring the bri-i-ide." And so it goes on for one, two, three
hours. The whole of such a rehearsal lasts six hours on
end. Raps with the stick, repetitions, placings, corrections
of the singers, of the orchestra, of the procession, of the
dancers, — all seasoned with angry scolding. I heard the
words, "asses," "fools," "idiots," "swine," addressed to the
musicians and singers at least forty times in the course of
one hour. And the unhappy individual to whom the abuse
is addressed, — flautist, horn-blower, or singer, — physically and
mentally demoralised, does not reply, and does what is
demanded of him. Twenty times is repeated the one phrase,
" Home I bring the bri-i-ide," and twenty times the striding
about in yellow shoes with a halberd over the shoulder.
The conductor knows that these people are so demoralised
that they are no longer fit for anything but to blow trumpets
and walk about with halberds and in yellow shoes, and that
they are also accustomed to dainty, easy living, so that they
will put up with anything rather than lose their luxurious
life. He therefore gives free vent to his churlishness,
especially as he has seen the same thing done in Paris and
Vienna, and knows that this is the way the best conductors
behave, and that it is a musical tradition of great artists
to be so carried away by the great business of their art
that they cannot pause to consider the feelings of other
artists.

It would be difficult to find a more repulsive sight. I
have seen one workman abuse another for not supporting
the weight piled upon him when goods wore being unloaded,
or, at hay-stacking, the village elder scold a peasant for not

6 WHAT IS ART?

making the rick right, and the man submitted in silence.
And, however unpleasant it was to witness the scene, the
unpleasantness was lessened by the consciousness that the
business in hand was needful and important, and that the
fault for which the head-man scolded the labourer was one
which might spoil a needful undertaking.

But what was being done here1? For what, and for
whom ? Very likely the conductor was tired out, like the
workman I passed in the vaults ; it was even evident that
he was; but who made him tire himself? And for what
was he tiring himself? The opera he was rehearsing was
one of the most ordinary of operas for people who are
accustomed to them, but also one of the most gigantic
absurdities that could possibly be devised. An Indian king
wants to marry ; they bring him a bride ; he disguises him
self as a minstrel ; the bride falls in love with the minstrel
and is in despair, but afterwards discovers that the minstrel
is the king, and everyone is highly delighted.

That there never were, or could be, such Indians, and that
they were not only unlike Indians, but that what they were
doing was unlike anything on earth except other operas,
was beyond all manner of doubt; that people do not con
verse in such a way as recitative, and do not place them
selves at fixed distances, in a quartet, waving their arms to
express their emotions ; that nowhere, except in theatres, do
people walk about in such a manner, in pairs, with tinfoil
halberds and in slippers ; that no one ever gets angry in such
a way, or is affected in such a way, or laughs in such a way,
or cries in such a way ; and that no one on earth can
be moved by such performances; all this is beyond the
possibility of doubt

Instinctively the question presents itself — For whom is
this being done? "Whom can it please1? If there are,
occasionally, good melodies in the opera, to which it is
pleasant to listen, they could have been sung simply, without

WHAT IS ART? 7

these stupid costumes and all the processions and recitatives
and hand-wavings.

The ballet, in which half-naked women make voluptuous
movements, twisting themselves into various sensual wreath-
ings, is oirnply a lewd performance.

So one is quite at a loss as to whom these things are done
for. The man of culture is heartily sick of them, while to
a real working man they are utterly incomprehensible. If
anyone can be pleased by these things (which is doubtful),
it can only be some young footman or depraved artisan, who
has contracted the spirit of the upper classes but is not yet
satiated with their amusements, and wishes to show his
breeding.

And all this nasty folly is prepared, not simply, nor with
kindly merriment, but with anger and brutal cruelty.

It is said that it is all done for the sake of art, and that
art is a very important thing. But is it true that art is so
important that such sacrifices should be made for its sake 1
This question is especially urgent, because art, for the sake
of which the labour of millions, the lives of men, and above
all, love between man and man, are being sacrificed, — this
very art is becoming something more and more vague and
uncertain to human perception.

Criticism, in which the lovers of art used to find support
for their opinions, has latterly become so self -contradictory,
that, if we exclude from the domain of art all that to
which the critics of various schools themselves deny the
title, there is scarcely any art left.

The artists of various sects, like the theologians of the
various sects, mutually exclude and destroy themselves.
Listen to the artists of the. schools of our times, and you
will find, in all branches, each set of artists disowning others.
In poetry the old romanticists deny the parnassians and
the decadents ; the parnassians disown the romanticists and
the decadents ; the decadents disown all their predecessors

8 WHAT IS ART?

and the symbolists ; the symbolists disown all their pre
decessors and les mages ; and Ics mages disown all, all their
predecessors. Among novelists we have naturalists, psycho
logists, and " nature-is ts,:' all rejecting each other. Audit
is the same in dramatic art, in painting and in music. So
that art, which demands such tremendous labour-sacrifices
from the people, which stunts human lives and transgresses
against human love, is not only not a thing clearly and
firmly denned, but is understood in sucli contradictory ways
by its own devotees that it is difficult to say what is meant
by art, and especially what is good, useful art, — art for the
sake of which we might condone such sacrifices as are being
offered at its shrine.

CHAPTER II

FOR the production of every ballet, circus, opera, operetta,
exhibition, picture, concert, or printed book, the intense and
unwilling labour of thousands and thousands of people is
needed at what is often harmful and humiliating work.
It were well if artists made all they require for themselves,
but, as it is, they all need the help of workmen, not only to
produce art, but also for their own usually luxurious main
tenance. And, one way or other, they get it ; either through
payments from rich people, or through subsidies given by
Government (in Russia, for instance, in grants of millions of
roubles to theatres, conservatoires and academies). This
money is collected from the people, some of whom have to
sell their only cow to pay the tax, and who never get those
aesthetic pleasures which art gives.

It was all very well for a Greek or Roman artist, or even
for a Russian artist of the first half of our century (when
there were still slaves, and it was considered right that there
should be), with a quiet mind to make people serve him and
his art; but in our day, when in all men there is at least
some dim perception of the equal rights of all, it is impos
sible to constrain people to labour unwillingly for art, without
first deciding the question whether it is true that art is so
good and so important an affair as to redeem this evil.

If not, we have the terrible probability to consider, that
while fearful sacrifices of the labour and lives of men, and
of morality itself, are being made to art, that same art may
be not only useless but even harmful.

io WHAT IS ART?

And therefore it is necessary for a society in which works
of art arise and are supported, to find out whether all that
professes to be art is really art ; whether (as is presupposed
in our society) all that which is art is good ; and whether
it is important and worth those sacrifices which it necessi
tates. It is still more necessary for every conscientious
artist to know this, that he may be sure that all he does
has a valid meaning ; that it is not merely an infatuation
of the small circle of people among whom he lives which
excites in him the false assurance that he is doing a good
work ; and that what he takes fM>m others for the support
of his often very luxurious life, will be compensated for by
those productions at which he works. And that is why
answers to the above questions are especially important in
our time.

What is this art, whi< h is considered so important and
necessary for humanity that for its sake these sacrifices of
labour, of human life, and even of goodness may be made 1

"What is art? What a question! Art is architecture,
sculpture, painting, music, and poetry in all its forms,"
usually replies the ordinary man, the art amateur, or even
the artist himself, imagining the matter about which he is
talking to be perfectly clear, and uniformly understood by
everybody. But in architecture, one inquires further,
are there not simple buildings which are not objects of
art, and buildings with artistic pretensions which are un
successful and ugly and therefore cannot be considered as
works of art 1 wherein lies the characteristic sign of a work
of art ?

It is the same in sculpture, in music, and in poetry. Art,
in all its forms, is bounded on one side by the practically
useful and on the other by unsuccessful attempts at art.
How is art to be marked off from each of these1? The
ordinary educated man of our circle, and even the artist
who has not occupied himself especially with aesthetics,

WHAT IS ART? n

will not hesitate at this question either. He thinks the
solution has been found long ago, and is well known to
everyone.

"Art is such activity as produces beauty," says such a
man.

If art consists in that, then is a ballet or an operetta
art1? you inquire.

"Yes," says the ordinary man, though Avith some hesita
tion, "a good ballet or a graceful operetta is also art, in so
far as it manifests beauty."

But without even asking the ordinary man what differen
tiates the "good" ballet and the "graceful" operetta from
their opposites (a question he would have much difficulty
in answering), if you ask him whether the activity of cos
tumiers and hairdressers, who ornament the figures and faces
of the women for the ballet and the operetta, is art ; or the
activity of Worth, the dressmaker ; of scent-makers and men-
cooks, then he will, in most cases, deny that their activity
belongs to the sphere of art. But in this the ordinary man
makes a mistake, just because he is an ordinary man and not
a specialist, and because he has not occupied himself with
aesthetic questions. Had he looked into these matters, he
would have seen in the great Kenan's book, Marc, Aurele,
a dissertation showing that the tailor's work is art, and that
those who do not see in the adornment of woman an affair
of the highest art are very small-minded and dull. " C'est le
grand art," says Kenan. Moreover, he would have known
that in many aesthetic systems — for instance, in the aesthetics
of the learned Professor Kralik, Weltschonheit, Versuch
einer allgemeinen ^Esthetik, von Richard Kralik, and in Les
problemes de V Esthetique Contemporaine, by Guyau — the arts
of costume, of taste, and of touch are included.

" Es Folgt nun ein Funfblatt von Kunsten, die der subjeo-
tiven Sinnlichkeit entkeimen "(There results then a pentafoliate
of arts, growing out of the subjective perceptions), says

12 WHAT IS ART?

Kralik (p. 175). " Sie sind die dstlietische Behandlung
der fiinf Sinne" (They are the aesthetic treatment of the
five senses.)

These five arts are the following : —

Die Kunst des Geschmacksinns — The art of the sense of
taste (p. 175).

Die Kunst des Geruchsinns — The art of the sense of smell
(p. 177).

Die Kunst des Tastsinns — The art of the sense of touch
(p. 180).

Die Kiuist des Gehursinns — Th^ art of the sense of hear-
ing (p. 182).

Die Kunst des Gesichtsinns — The art of the sense of sight
(p. 184).

Of the first of these — die Kunst des Geschmacksinns — he
says : " Man halt zwar gewohnlich nur zwei oder hochstens
drei Sinne fur wiirdig, den Stoff kunstlerischer Behandlung
dbzugeben, aber ich glaube nur mit bedingtem Recht. Ich
will kein allzugrosses Gewicht darauf legen, dass der gemeine
Sprachgebrauch manch andere Kiinste, wie zum Beispiel die
Kochkunst kennt."1

And further : " Und es ist doch gewiss eine dsthetische
Leistung, wenn es der Kochkunst gelingt aus einem thierischen
Kadaver einen Gegenstand des Geschmacks injedem Sinne zu
machen. Der Grundsatz der Kunst des Geschmacksinns (die
weiter ist als die sogenannte Kochkunst} ist also dieser : Es
soil alles Geniessbare als Sinnbild einer Idee behandelt werden
und in jedesmaligem Einklang zur auszudrilckenden Idee."2

1 Only two, or at most three, senses are generally held worthy to
supply matter for artistic treatment, but I think this opinion is only
conditionally correct. I will not lay too much stress on the fact that
our common speech recognises many other arts, as, for instance, the
art of cookery.

2 And yet it is certainly an aesthetic achievement when the art of
cooking succeeds in making of an animal's corpse an object in all re-

WHAT IS ART 1 13

This author, like Kenan, acknowledges a Kostilmkunst
(Art of Costume) (p. 200), etc.

Such is also the opinion of the French writer, Guyau,
who is highly esteemed by some authors of our day. In
his book, Les problemes de Vesthetique contemporaine, he
speaks seriously of touch, taste, and smell as giving, or being
capable of giving, aesthetic impressions : " Si la couleur
manque au toucher, il nous fournit en revanche une notion
que Voe.il seul ne peut nous donner, et qui a une valeur
esthetique considerable, celle du doux, du soyeux du poll.
Ce qui caracterise la beaute du velours, c'est sa douceur au
toucher non mains que son brillant. Dans Videe que nous
nous faisons de la beaute d'une femme, le veloute de sa peau
entre comme clement essentiel"

" Cliacun de nous probablement avec un peu d' attention se
rappellera des jouissances du gout, qui out etc de veritables
jouissances esthetiques." x And he recounts how a glass of
milk drunk by him in the mountains gave him aesthetic
enjoyment.

So it turns out that the conception of art as consisting
in making beauty manifest is not at all so simple as it seemed,
especially now, when in this conception of beauty are
included our sensations of touch and taste and smell, as
they are by the latest aesthetic writers.

spects tasteful. The principle of the Art of Taste (wliicli goes beyond
the so-called Art of Cookery) is therefore this : All that is eatable
should be treated as the symbol of some Idea, and always in harmony
with the Idea to be expressed.

1 If the sense of touch lacks colour, it gives us, on the other hand,
a notion which the eye alone cannot afford, and one of considerable
esthetic value, namely, that of softness, silkiness, polish. The beauty
of velvet is characterised not less by its softness to the touch than by
its lustre. In the idea we form of a woman's beauty, the softness of
her skin enters as an essential element.

Each of us probably, with a little attention, can recall pleasures of
taste which have been real aesthetic pleasures.

I4 WHAT IS ART?

But the ordinary man either does not know, or does not
wish to know, all this, and is firmly convinced that all
questions about art may be simply and clearly solved by
acknowledging beauty to be the subject-matter of art. To
him it seems clear and comprehensible that art consists in
manifesting beauty, and that a reference to beauty will
serve to explain all questions about art.

But what is this beauty which forms the subject-matter
of art 1 How is it defined 1 What is it ?

As is always the case, the more cloudy and confused the
conception conveyed by a word, with the more aplomb and
self-assurance do people use that word, pretending that
what is understood by it is so simple and clear that it is
not worth while even to discuss what it actually
means.

This is how matters of orthodox religion are usually dealt
with, and this is how people now deal with the conception
•of beauty. It is taken for granted that what is meant by
the word beauty is known and understood by everyone.
And yet not only is this not known, but, after whole
.mountains of books have been written on the subject by the
most learned and profound thinkers during one hundred
and fifty years (ever since Baumgarten founded aesthetics in
the year 1750), the question, What is beauty1? remains to
this day quite unsolved, and in each new work on aesthetics
it is answered in a new way. One of the last books I
read on aesthetics is a not ill-written booklet by Julius
Mithalter, called Rdtsel des Schonen (The Enigma of the
Beautiful). And that title precisely expresses the position
of the question, What is beauty 1 After thousands of
learned men have discussed it during one hundred and fifty
years, the meaning of the word beauty remains an enigma
still. The Germans answer the question in their manner,
though in a hundred different ways. The physiologist-
.sestheticians, especially the Englishmen : Herbert Spencer,

WHAT IS ART? % 15

Grant Allen and his school, answer it, each in his own
way ; the French eclectics, and the followers of Guyau and
Taine, also each in his own way ; and all these people know
all the preceding solutions given by Baumgarten, and Kant,
and Schelling, and Schiller, and Fichte, and Winckelmann,
and Lessing, and Hegel, and Schopenhauer, and Hartmann,
and Schasler, and Cousin, and Leveque and others.

What is this strange conception " beauty," which seems so
simple to those who talk without thinking, but in denning
which all the philosophers of various tendencies and different
nationalities can come to no agreement during a century and
a half ? What is this conception of beauty, on which the
dominant doctrine of art rests 1

In Russian, by the word krasota (beauty) we mean only
that which pleases the sight. And though latterly people
have begun to speak of "an ugly deed," or of "beautiful
music," it is not good Russian.

A Russian of the common folk, not knowing foreign
languages, will not understand you if you tell him that a
man who has given his last coat to another, or done any
thing similar, has acted " beautifully," that a man who has
cheated another has done an " ugly " action, or that a song
is "beautiful."

In Russian a deed may be kind and good, or unkind and
bad. Music may be pleasant and good, or unpleasant and
bad; but there can be no such thing as "beautiful" or
"ugly " music.

Beautiful may relate to a man, a horse, a house, a view,
or a movement. Of actions, thoughts, character, or music,
if they please us, we may say that they are good, or, if they
do not please us, that they are not good. But beautiful
can be used only concerning that which pleases the sight.
So that the word and conception "good" includes the
conception of " beautiful," but the reverse is not the case ;
the conception " beauty " does not include the concep-

1 6 WHAT IS ART?

tion "good." If we say "good" of an article which, we
value for its appearance, we thereby say that the article is
beautiful; but if we say it is "beautiful," it does not at
all mean that the article is a good one,

Such is the meaning ascribed by the Eussian language,
and therefore by the sense of the people, to the words and
conceptions "good" and "beautiful."

In all the European languages, i.e. the languages of those
nations among whom the doctrine has spread that beauty is
the essential thing in art, the words "beau," "schon,"
"beautiful," "bello," etc., while keeping their meaning of
beautiful in form, have come to also express "goodness,"
"kindness," i.e. have come to act as substitutes for the
word "good."

So that it has become quite natural in those languages to
use such expressions as " belle ame," "schone Gedanken," of
"beautiful deed." Those languages no longer have a
suitable word wherewith expressly to indicate beauty of
form, and have to use a combination of words such as
"beau par la forme," "beautiful to look at," etc., to convey
that idea.

Observation of the divergent meanings which the words
" beauty " and " beautiful " have in Eussian on the one hand,
and in those European languages now permeated by this
aesthetic theory on the other hand, shows us that the word
" beauty " has, among the latter, acquired a special meaning,
namely, that of "good."

What is remarkable, moreover, is that since we Eussians
have begun more and more to adopt the European view of
art, the same evolution has begun to show itself in our
language also, and some people speak and write quite
confidently, and without causing surprise, of beautiful music
and ugly actions, or even thoughts ; whereas forty years ago,
when I was young, the expressions " beautiful music " and
" ugly actions " were not only unusual but incomprehensible.

WHAT IS ART? 17

Evidently this new meaning given to beauty by European
thought begins to be assimilated by Russian society.

And what really is this meaning 1 What is this " beauty "
as it is understood by the European peoples ?

In order to answer this question, I must here quote at
least a small selection of those definitions of beauty most
generally adopted in existing aesthetic systems. I especially
beg the reader not to be overcome by dulness, but to read
these extracts through, or, still better, to read some one of
the erudite aesthetic authors. ^N"ot to mention the voluminous
German sestheticians, a very good book for this purpose
would be either the German book by Kralik, the English work
by Knight, or the French one by Leveque. It is necessary to
read one of the learned aesthetic writers irl order to form at
first-hand a conception of the variety in opinion and the
frightful obscurity which reigns in this region of specula
tion; not, in this important matter, trusting to another's
report.

This, for instance, is what the German aesthetician
Schasler says in the preface to his famous, voluminous,
and detailed work on aesthetics : —

"Hardly in any sphere of philosophic science can we
find such divergent methods of investigation and exposition,
amounting even to self-contradiction, as in the sphere of
aesthetics. On the one hand we have elegant phraseology
without any substance, characterised in great part by most
one-sided superficiality; and on the other hand, accompany
ing undeniable profundity of investigation and richness of
subject-matter, we get a revolting awkwardness of philosophic
terminology, enfolding the simplest thoughts in an apparel
of abstract science as though to render them worthy to
enter the consecrated palace of the system ; and finally^
between these two methods of investigation and exposition,
there is a third, forming, as it were, the transition from one
to the other, a method consisting of eclecticism, now flaunt

2

i8 WHAT IS ART?

ing an elegant phraseology and now a pedantic erudition. . . .
A style of exposition that falls into none of these three
defects but it is truly concrete, and, having important matter,
expresses it in clear and popular philosophic language, can
nowhere be found less frequently than in the domain of
aesthetics." l

It is only necessary, for instance, to read Schasler's own
book to convince oneself of the justice of this observation of
his.

On the same subject the French writer Yeron, in the
preface to his very good work on aesthetics, says, " 12 n'y a pas
de science, qui ait eteplus que Vestlietique livree aux reveries des
metapJiysiciens. Depuis Platonjusqu' aux doctrines officielles
de nos jours, on a fait de I'art je ne sais quel amalyame de
fantaisies quintessences, et de mysteres transcendantaux qui
trouvent lew expression supreme dans la conception absolue dn
Beau ideal, prototype immuable et divin des choses reelles "
(L'esthetique, 1878, p. 5).2

If the reader will only be at the pains to peruse the
following extracts, defining beauty, taken from the chief
writers on aesthetics, he may convince himself that this
censure is thoroughly deserved.

X" I shall not quote the definitions of beauty attributed to

/ the ancients, — Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, etc., down to

Plotinus, — because, in reality, the ancients had not that

conception of beauty separated from goodness which forms

\ the basis and aim of aesthetics in our time. By referring the

1 M. Schasler, Kritische Geschichte der Aesthetik, 1872, vol. i.
p. 13.

2 There is no science which more than aesthetics has been handed
over to the reveries of the metaphysicians. From Plato down to the
received doctrines of our day, people have made of art a strange
amalgam of quintessential fancies and transcendental mysteries, which
find their supreme expression in the conception of an absolute ideal
Beauty, immutable and divine prototype of actual things.

WHAT IS ART? 19

/ judgments of the ancients on beauty to our conception of it,
as is usually done in aesthetics, we give the words of the
I ancients a meaning which is not theirs.1

1 See on this matter Benard's admirable book, L'esthe'tique
d'Aristote, also Walter's Geschichte der Aesthetik im Altertum.

CHAPTER III

I BEGIN with the founder of aesthetics, Baumgarten (1714—
1762).

According to Baumgarten,1 the object of logical knowledge
is Truth, the object of aesthetic (i.e. sensuous) knowledge
is Beauty. Beauty is the Perfect (the Absolute), recog
nised through the senses ; Truth is -the Perfect perceived
through reason ; Goodness is the Perfect reached by moral
will.

Beauty is denned by Baumgarten as a correspondence, i.e.
an order of the parts in their mutual relations to each
other and in their relation to the whole. The aim of beauty
itself is to please and excite a desire, " Wohlgef alien und
Erregung eines Verlangens." (A position precisely the opposite
of Kant's definition of the nature and sign of beauty.)

With reference to the manifestations of beauty, Baum
garten considers that the highest embodiment of beauty
is seen by us in nature, and he therefore thinks that the
highest aim of art is to copy nature. (This position
also is directly contradicted by the conclusions of the
latest aestheticians.)

Passing over the unimportant followers of Baumgarten, —
Maier, Eschenburg, and Eberhard, — who only slightly
modified the doctrine of their teacher by dividing the
pleasant from the beautiful, I will quote the definitions
given by writers who came immediately after Baumgarten,
and defined beauty quite in another way. These writers
1 Schasler, p. 361.

WHAT IS ART? 21

were Sulzer, Mendelssohn, and Moritz. They, in con
tradiction to Baurngarten's main position, recognise as the
aim of art, not beauty, but goodness. Thus Sulzer
(1720-1777) says that only that can be considered beautiful
which contains goodness. According to his theory, the aim
of the whole life of humanity is welfare in social life. This
is attained by the education of the moral feelings, to
which end art should be subservient. Beauty is that
which evokes and educates this feeling.

Beauty is understood almost in the same way by
Mendelssohn (1729-1786). According to him, art is the
carrying forward of the beautiful, obscurely recognised by
feeling, till it becomes the true and good. The aim of art
is moral perfection.1

For the aestheticians of this school, the ideal of beauty
is a beautiful soul in a beautiful body. So that these
aestheticians completely wipe out Baumgarten's division of
the Perfect (the Absolute), into the three forms of Truth,
Goodness, and Beauty ; and Beauty is again united with the
Good and the True.

But this conception is not only not maintained by the later
aestheticians, but the aesthetic doctrine of Winckelmann
arises, again in complete opposition. This divides the mission
of art from the aim of goodness in the sharpest and most
positive manner, makes external beauty the aim of art, and
even limits it to visible beauty.

According to the celebrated work of Winckelmann (1717-
1767), the law and aim of all art is beauty only, beauty
quite separated from and independent of goodness. There
are three kinds of beauty : — (1) beauty of form, (2) beauty
of idea, expressing itself in the position of the figure (in
plastic art), (3) beauty of expression, attainable only when
the two first conditions are present. This beauty of ex
pression is the highest aim of art, and is attained in
3 Schasler, p. 369.

22 WHAT IS ART?

antique art ; modern art should therefore aim at imitating
ancient art.1

Art is similarly understood by Lessing, Herder, and after
wards by Goethe and by all the distinguished sestheticians
of Germany till Kant, from whose day, again, a different
conception of art commences.

Native aesthetic theories arose during this period in
England, France, Italy, and Holland, and they, though not
taken from the German, were equally cloudy and contra
dictory. And all these writers, just like the German
aestheticians, founded their theories on a conception of the
Beautiful, understanding beauty in the sense of a something
existing absolutely, and mure or less intermingled with
Goodness or having one arid the same root. In England,
almost simultaneously with Baumgarten, even a little earlier,
Shaftesbury, Hutcheson, Home, Burke, Hogarth, and others,
wrote on art.

According to Shaftesbury (1670-1713), "That which is
beautiful is harmonious and proportionable, what is har
monious and proportionable is true, and what is at once
both beautiful and true is of consequence agreeable and
good." - Beauty, he taught, is recognised by the mind only.
God is fundamental beauty; beauty and goodness proceed
from the same fount.

So that, although Shaftesbury regards beauty as being
something separate from goodness, they again merge into
something inseparable.

According to Hutcheson (1694-1747 — "Inquiry into the
Original of our Ideas of Beauty and Virtue"), the aim of
art is beauty, the essence of which consists in evoking in us
the perception of uniformity amid variety. In the recogni
tion of what is art we are guided by " an internal sense."
This internal sense may be in contradiction to the ethical

1 Scliasler, pp. 388-390.

" Knight, Philosophy of the Beautiful, i. pp. 165, 166.

WHAT IS ART? 23

one. So that, according to Hutcheson, beauty does not
always correspond with goodness, but separates from it and
is sometimes contrary to it.1

According to Home, Lord Kames (1696-1782), beauty is
that which is pleasant. Therefore beauty is denned by taste
alone. The standard of true taste is that the maximum of
richness, fulness, strength, and variety of impression should
be contained in the narrowest limits. That is the ideal of
a perfect work of art.

According to Burke (1729-1797 — "Philosophical Inquiry
into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful "),
the sublime and beautiful, which are the aim of art, have
'their origin in the promptings of self-preservation and of
society. These feelings, examined in their source, are means
for the maintenance of the race through the individual. The
first (self-preservation) is attained by nourishment, defence,
and war ; the second (society) by intercourse and propagation.
Therefore self-defence, and war, which is bound up with it,
is the source of the sublime ; sociability, and the sex-instinct,
which is bound up with it, is the source of beauty.2

Such were the chief English definitions of art and beauty
in the eighteenth century.

During that period, in France, the writers on art were Pere
Andr6 and Batteux, with Diderot, D'Alembert, and, to some
extent, Voltaire, following later.

According to Pere Andre (" Essai sur le Beau," 1741), there
are three kinds of beauty — divine beauty, natural beauty,
and artificial beauty.3

According to Batteux (1713-1780), art consists in
imitating the beauty of nature, its aim being enjoyment.4
Such is also Diderot's definition of art.

1 Schasler, p. 289. Knight, pp. 168, 169.

2 R. Kralik, Weltschonheit, Versuch ewier allgemeinen Aesthetik,
pp. 304-306.

3 Knight, p. 101. 4Schlaser, p. 316.

24 WHAT IS ART?

The French writers, like the English, consider that it is taste
that decides what is beautiful. And the laws of taste are not
only riot laid down, but it is granted that they cannot be settled.
The same view was held by D'Alembert and Voltaire.1

According to the Italian aesthetician of that period, Pagano,
art consists in uniting the beauties' dispersed in nature.
The capacity to perceive these beauties is taste, the capacity
to bring them into one whole is artistic genius. Beauty
commingles with goodness, so that beauty is goodness made
visible, and goodness is inner beauty.2

According to the opinion of other Italians : Muratori (1672—
1750), — " Riflessioni sopra il buon gusto intorno le science e
le arti," — and especially Spaletti,3 — " Saggio sopra la bettezza"
(1765), — art amounts to an egotistical sensation, founded (as
with Burke) on the desire for self-preservation and society.

Among Dutch writers, Hemsterhuis (1720-1790), who
had an influence on the German sestheticians and on Goethe,
is remarkable. According to him, beauty is that which gives
most pleasure, and that gives most pleasure which gives us
the greatest number of ideas in the shortest time. Enjoy
ment of the beautiful, because it gives the greatest quantity
of perceptions in the shortest time, is the highest notion to
which man can attain.4

Such were the aesthetic theories outside Germany during the
last century. In Germany, after Winckelmann, there again
arose a completely new aesthetic theory, that of Kant (1724-
1804), which more than all others clears up what this con
ception of beauty, and consequently of art, really amounts to.

The aesthetic teaching of Kant is founded as follows : —
Man has a knowledge of nature outside him and of himself
in nature. In nature, outside himself, he seeks for truth ;
in himself he seeks for goodness. The first is an affair of
pure reason, the other of practical reason (free-will). Besides

1 Knight, pp. 102-104. 2 R. Kralik, p. 124.

3 Spaletti, Schasler, p. 328. 4 Schasler, pp. 331-333.

WHAT IS ART? 25

these two means of perception, there is yet the judging
capacity (Urteilskraft), which forms judgments without
reasonings and produces pleasure without desire (Urtheil
ohne Begriff und Vergniigen ohne JBegehren). This capacity
is the basis of aesthetic feeling. Beauty, according to Kant,
in its subjective meaning is that which, in general and
necessarily, without reasonings and without practical
advantage, pleases. In its objective meaning it is the form
of a suitable object in so far as that object is perceived
without any conception of its utility.1

Beauty is defined in the same way by the followers of
Kant, among whom was Schiller (1759-1805). According
to Schiller, who wrote much on aesthetics, the aim of art is,
as with Kant, beauty, the source of which is pleasure with
out practical advantage. So that art may be called a game,
not in the sense of an unimportant occupation, but in the
sense of a manifestation of the beauties of life itself without
other aim than that of beauty.2

Besides Schiller, the most remarkable of Kant's followers
in the sphere of aesthetics was Wilhelm Humboldt, who,
though he added nothing to the definition of beauty, explained
various forms of it, — the drama, music, the comic, etc.3

After Kant, besides the second-rate philosophers, the
writers on aesthetics were Fichte, Schelling, Hegel, and their
followers. Fichte (1762-1814) says that perception of the
beautiful proceeds from this : the world — i.e. nature — has
two sides : it is the sum of our limitations, and it is the
sum of our free idealistic activity. In the first aspect the
world is limited, in the second aspect it is free. In the first
aspect every object is limited, distorted, compressed, confined
• — and we see deformity ; in the second we perceive its inner
completeness, vitality, regeneration — and we see beauty. So
that the deformity or beauty of an object, according to

1 Schasler, pp. 525-528. 2 Knight, pp. 61-63.

3 Schasler, pp. 740-743.

26 WHAT IS ART?

Fichte, depends on the point of view of the observer.
Beauty therefore exists, not in the world, but in the beautiful
soul (schoner Geist). Art is the manifestation of this
beautiful soul, and its aim is the education, not only of the
mind — that is the business of the savant • not only of the
heart — that is the affair of the moral preacher ; but of the
whole man. And so the characteristic of beauty lies, not
in anything external, but in the presence of a beautiful soul
in the artist.1

Following Fichte, and in the same direction, Friedrich
Schlegel and Adam Miiller also denned beauty. According
to Schlegel (1772-1829), beauty in art is understood too
incompletely, one-sidedly, and disconnectedly. Beauty exists
not only in art, but also in nature and in love ; so that the
truly beautiful is expressed by the union of art, nature, and
love. Therefore, as inseparably one with aesthetic art,
Schlegel acknowledges moral and philosophic art.-'

According to Adam Miiller (1779-1829), there are two
kinds of beauty ; the one, general beauty, which attracts
people as the sun attracts the planet — this is found chiefly in
antique art — and the other, individual beauty, which results
from the observer himself becoming a sun attracting beauty,
— this is the beauty of modern art. A world in which all
contradictions are harmonised is the highest beauty. Every
work of art is a reproduction of this universal harmony.3
The highest art is the art of life.4

!N"ext after Fichte and his followers came a contemporary
of his, the philosopher Schelling (1775-1854), who has had
a great influence on the aesthetic conceptions of our times.
According to Schilling's philosophy, art is the production
or result of that conception of things by which the subject
becomes its own object, or the object its own subject.
Beauty is the perception of the infinite in the finite. And

1 Schasler, pp. 769-771. " Schasler, pp. 786, 787.

3 Kralik, p. 148. 4 Kralik, p. 820.

WHAT IS ART? 27

the chief characteristic of works of art is unconscious infinity.
Art is the uniting of the subjective with the objective, of
nature with reason, of the unconscious with the conscious,
and therefore art is the highest means of knowledge.
Beauty is the contemplation of things in themselves as they
exist in the prototype (In den Urbildern). It is not the
artist who by his knowledge or skill produces the beautiful,
but the idea of beauty in him itself produces it.1

Of Schelling's followers the most noticeable was Solger
( 1 780-1 819 — Vorlesungen iiber Aesthetik). According to him^
the idea of beauty is the fundamental idea of everything.
In the world we see only distortions of the fundamental
idea, but art, by imagination, may lift itself to the height of
this idea. Art is therefore akin to creation.2

According to another follower of Schelling, Krause
(1781-1832), true, positive beauty is the manifestation of the
Idea in an individual form ; art is the actualisation of the
beauty existing in the sphere of man's free spirit. The
highest stage of art is the art of life, which directs its activity
towards the adornment of life so that it may be a beautiful
abode for a beautiful man.3

After Schelling and his followers came the new aesthetic
doctrine of Hegel, which is held to this day, consciously by
many, but by the majority unconsciously. This teaching is
not only no clearer or better defined than the preceding
ones, but is, if possible, even more cloudy and mystical.

According to Hegel (1770-1831), God manifests himself
in nature and in art in the form of beauty. God expresses
himself in two ways : in the object and in the subject, in
nature and in spirit. Beauty is the shining of the Idea
through matter. Only the soul, and what pertains to
it, is truly beautiful ; and therefore the beauty of nature is
only the reflection of the natural beauty of the spirit — the

1 Schasler, pp. 828, 829, 834-841. 2 Scliasler, p. 891.

3 Schasler, p. 917.

28 WHAT IS ART?

beautiful has only a spiritual content. But the spiritual
must appear in sensuous form. The sensuous manifestation
of spirit is only appearance (schein), and this appearance
is the only reality of the beautiful. Art is thus the production
of this appearance of the Idea, and is a means, together with
religion and philosophy, of bringing to consciousness and
of expressing the deepest problems of humanity and the
highest truths of the spirit.

Truth and beauty, according to Hegel, are one and the
same thing; the difference being only that truth is the
Idea itself as it exists in itself, and is thinkable. The
Idea, manifested externally, becomes to the apprehension
not only true but beautiful. The beautiful is the mani
festation of the Idea.1

Following Hegel came his many adherents, Weisse,
Arnold Ruge, Rosenkrantz, Theodor Vischer and others.

According to Weisse (1801-1867), art is the introduction
(Eiribildung) of the absolute spiritual reality of beauty
into external, dead, indifferent matter, the perception of
which latter apart from the beauty brought into it pre
sents the negation of all existence in itself (Negation alles
Filrsichseins).

In the idea of truth, Weisse explains, lies a contra
diction between the subjective and the objective sides of
knowledge, in that an individual / discerns the Universal.
This contradiction can be removed by a conception that
should unite into one the universal and the individual, which
fall asunder in our conceptions of truth. Such a conception
would be reconciled (aufgehoben) truth. Beauty is such a
reconciled truth.2

According to Ruge (1802-1880), a strict follower of
Hegel, beauty is the Idea expressing itself. The spirit,
contemplating itself, either finds itself expressed completely,

1 Schasler, pp. 946, 1085, 984, 985, 990.

2 Schasler, pp. 966, 655, 956.

WHAT IS ART? 29

and then that full expression of itself is beauty ; or incom
pletely, and then it feels the need to alter this imperfect
expression of itself, and becomes creative art.1

According to Yischer (1807-1887), beauty is the Idea in
the form of a finite phenomenon. The Idea itself is not
indivisible, but forms a system of ideas, which may be
represented by ascending and descending lines. The
higher the idea the more beauty it contains ; but even
the lowest contains beauty, because it forms an essential
link of the system. The highest form of the Idea is
personality, and therefore the highest art is that which has
for its subject-matter the highest personality.2

Such were the theories of the German aestheticians in the
Hegelian direction, but they did not monopolise aesthetic
dissertations. In Germany, side by side and simultaneously
with the Hegelian theories, there appeared theories of
beauty not only independent of Hegel's position (that
beauty is the manifestation of the Idea), but directly con
trary to this view, denying and ridiculing it. Such was
the line taken by Herbart and, more particularly, by
Schopenhauer.

According to Herbart (1776-1841), there is not, and
cannot be, any such thing as beauty existing in itself.
What does exist is only our opinion, and it is necessary to
find the base of this opinion (Asthetisches Elementar-
urtlieil). Such bases are connected with our impressions.
There are certain relations which we term beautiful ;
and art consists in finding these relations, which
are simultaneous in painting, the plastic art, and
architecture, successive and simultaneous in music,
and purely successive in poetry. In contradiction to the
former sestheticians, Herbart holds that objects are often
beautiful which express nothing at all, as, for instance, the
rainbow, which is beautiful for its lines and colours, and
1 Schasler, p. 1017. - Schasler, pp. 1065, 1066.

30 WHAT IS ART?

not for its mythological connection with Iris or Noah's
rainbow.1

Another opponent of Hegel was Schopenhauer, who
denied Hegel's whole system, his aesthetics included.

According to Schopenhauer (1788-1860), Will objectivizes
itself in the world on various planes; and although the
higher the plane on which it is objectivized the more
beautiful it is, yet each plane has its own beauty. Re
nunciation of one's individuality and contemplation of one
of these planes of manifestation of Will gives us a per
ception of beauty. All men, says Schopenhauer, possess
the capacity to objectivize the Idea on different planes.
The genius of the artist has this capacity in a higher degree,
and therefore makes a higher beauty manifest.2

After these more eminent writers there followed, in
Germany, less original and less influential ones, such as
Hartmann, Kirkmann, Schnasse, and, to some extent,
Helmholtz (as an sesthetician), Bergmann, Jungmann, and an
innumerable host of others.

According to Hartmann (1842), beauty lies, not in the
external world, nor in " the thing in itself," neither does it
reside in the soul of man, but it lies in the "seeming"
(Schein) produced by the artist. The thing in itself is not
beautiful, but is transformed into beauty by the artist.8

According to Schnasse (1798-1875), there is no perfect
beauty in the world. In nature there is only an approach
towards it. Art gives what nature cannot give. In the
energy of the free ego, conscious of harmony not found in
nature, beauty is disclosed.4

Kirkmann wrote on experimental aesthetics. All aspects
of history in his system are joined by pure chance. Thus,
according to Kirkmann (1802-1884), there are six realms
of history : — The realm of Knowledge, of Wealth, of

1 Schasler, pp. 1097-1100, 2 Schasler, pp. 1124, 1107.

3 Knight, pp. 81, 82. 4 Knight, p. 83.

WHAT IS ART? 31

Morality, of Faith, of Politics, and of Beauty; and activity
in the last-named realm is art.1

According to Helmholtz (1821), who wrote on beauty as
it relates to music, beauty in musical productions is attained
only by following unalterable laws. These laws are not
known to the artist; so that beauty is manifested by the
artist unconsciously, and cannot be subjected to analysis.2

According to Bergmann (1840) (Ueber das ScJione, 1887),
to define beauty objectively is impossible. Beauty is only
perceived subjectively, and therefore the problem of aesthetics
is to define what pleases whom.3

According to Jungmann (d. 1885), firstly, beauty is a
suprasensible quality of things ; secondly, beauty produces
in us pleasure by merely being contemplated ; and, thirdly,
beauty is the foundation of love.4

The aesthetic theories of the chief representatives of France,
England, and other nations in recent times have been the
following : —

In France, during this period, the prominent writers on
aesthetics were Cousin, Jouffroy, Pictet, Eavaisson, Leveque.

Cousin (1792-1867) was an eclectic, and a follower of the
German idealists. According to his theory, beauty always
has a moral foundation. He disputes the doctrine that art
is imitation and that the beautiful is what pleases. He
affirms that beauty may be defined objectively, and that it
essentially consists in variety in unity.5

After Cousin came Jouffroy (1796-1842), who was a pupil
of Cousin's and also a follower of the German sestheticians.
According to his definition, beauty is the expression of the
invisible by those natural signs which manifest it. The
visible world is the garment by means of which we see beauty.6

The Swiss writer Pictet repeated Hegel and Plato,

1 Schasler, p. 1121. 2 Knight, pp. 85, 86.

3 Knight, p. 88. 4 Knight, p. 88.

5 Knight, p. 112. 6 Knight, p. 316.

32 WHAT IS ART?

supposing beauty to exist in the direct and free manifesta
tion of the divine Idea revealing itself in sense forms.1

LeVeque was a follower of Schelling and Hegel. He
holds that beauty is something invisible behind nature — a
force or spirit revealing itself in ordered energy.2

Similar vague opinions about the nature of beauty were
expressed by the French metaphysician Kavaisson, who
considered beauty to be the ultimate aim and purpose of the
world. " La beaut e la plus divine et principalement la plus
parfaite contient le secret du monde."5 And again: — " Le
monde entier est Voeuvre d'une beaute absolue, qui n'est la
cause des choses que par V amour qu'elle met en elles."

I purposely abstain from translating these metaphysical
expressions, because, however cloudy the Germans may be,
the French, once they absorb the theories of the Germans
and take to imitating them, far surpass them in uniting
heterogeneous conceptions into one expression, and putting
forward one meaning or another indiscriminately. For
instance, the French philosopher Renouvier, when discussing
beauty, says: — " Ne craignons pas de dire qu'une verite qui
ne serait pas belle, ne serait qu'un jeu logique de notre esprit
et que la seule verite solide et digne de ce nom c'est la beaute. " 4

Besides the aesthetic idealists who wrote and still write
under the influence of German philosophy, the following
recent writers have also influenced the comprehension of art
and beauty in France : Taine, Guyau, Cherbuliez, Coster,
and Veron.

According to Taine (1828-1893), beauty is the manifesta
tion of the essential characteristic of any important idea
more completely than it is expressed in reality.5

Guyau (1854-1888) taught that beauty is not something
exterior to the object itself, — is not, as it were, a parasitic

1 Knight, pp. 118, 119. 2 Knight, pp. 123, 124.

3 La philosophie en France, p. 232. 4 Du fondement de I 'induction.

5 Philosophic de Part, vol. i. 1893, p. 47.

WHAT IS ART? 33

growth on it, — but is itself the very blossoming forth of that
on which it appears. Art is the expression of reasonable and
conscious life, evoking in us both the deepest consciousness
of existence and the highest feelings and loftiest thoughts.
Art lifts man from his personal life into the universal life,
by means, not only of participation in the same ideas and
beliefs, but also by means of similarity in feeling.1

According to Cherbuliez, art is an activity, (1) satisfying
our innate love of forms (apparences), (2) endowing these
forms with ideas, (3) affording pleasure alike to our senses,
heart, and reason. Beauty is not inherent in objects, but is
an act of our souls. Eeauty is an illusion; there is no
absolute beauty. But what we consider characteristic and
harmonious appears beautiful to us.

Coster held that the ideas of the beautiful, the good, and
the true are innate. These ideas illuminate our minds and
are identical with God, who is Goodness, Truth, and Beauty.
The idea of Beauty includes unity of essence, variety of
constitutive elements, and order, which brings unity into
the various manifestations of life.2

For the sake of completeness, I will further cite some of
the very latest writings upon art.

La psychologie du Beau et de I' Art, par Mario Pilo (1895),
says that beauty is a product of our physical feelings. The
aim of art is pleasure, but this pleasure (for some reason) he
considers to be necessarily highly moral.

The Essai sur Tart contemporain, par Fierens Gevaert
(1897), says that art rests on its connection with the past,
and on the religious ideal of the present which the artist
holds when giving to his work the form of his individuality.

Then again, Sar Peladan's L'art idealiste et mystique (1894)
?ays that beauty is one of the manifestations of God. " II riy
a pas d'autre Realiti que Dim, it riy a pas d'autre Verite
qua Dieu, il riy a pas d'autre Beaute, que Dieu " (p. 33).
1 Knight, p. 139-141. 2 Knight, pp. 134.

3

34 WHAT IS ART?

This book is very fantastic and very illiterate, but is
characteristic in the positions it takes up, and noticeable on
account of a certain success it is having with the younger
generation in France.

All the aesthetics diffused in France up to the present time
are similar in kind, but among them 'Veion'sL'esthetique (1878)
forms an exception, being reasonable and clear. That work,
though it does not give an exact definition of art, at least
rids aesthetics of the cloudy conception of an absolute beauty,

According to Yeron (1825-1889), art is the manifestation
of emotion transmitted externally by a combination of lines,
forms, colours, or by a succession of movements, sounds, or
words subjected to certain rhythms.1

In England, during this period, the writers on aesthetics
define beauty more and more frequently, not by its own
qualities, but by taste, and the discussion about beauty is
superseded by a discussion on taste.

After Reid (1704-1796), who acknowledged beauty as
being entirely dependent on the spectator, Alison, in "his
Essay on the Nature and Principles of Taste (1790), proved
the same thing. From another side this was also asserted
by Erasmus Darwin (1731-1802), the grandfather of the
celebrated Charles Darwin.

He says that we consider beautiful that which is con
nected in our conception with what we love. Richard
Knight's work, An Analytical Inquiry into the Principles of
Taste, also tends in the same direction.

Most of the English theories of aesthetics are on the same
lines. The prominent writers on aesthetics in England
during the present century have been Charles Darwin, (to
some extent), Herbert Spencer, Grant Allen, Ker, and
Knight.

According to Charles Darwin (1809-1882— Descent of
Man, 1871), beauty is a feeling natural not only to man
1 L'esthdtique, p. 106.

WHAT IS ART? 35

but also to animals, and consequently to the ancestors of
man. Birds adorn their nests and esteem beauty in their
mates. Beauty has an influence on marriages. Beauty
includes a variety of diverse conceptions. The origin of
the art of music is the call of the males to the females.1

According to Herbert Spencer (b. 1820), the origin of
art is play, a thought previously expressed by Schiller. In
the lower animals all the energy of life is expended in life-
maintenance and race-maintenance ; in man, however, there
remains, after these needs are satisfied, some superfluous
strength. This excess is used in play, which passes over
into art. Play is an imitation of real activity, so is art.
The sources of esthetic pleasure are threefold : — (1) That
" which exercises the faculties affected in the most complete
ways, with the fewest drawbacks from excess of exercise,"
(2) "the difference of a stimulus in large amount, which
awakens a glow of agreeable feeling," (3) the partial revival
of the same, with special combinations.2

In Todhunter's Theory of the Beautiful (1872), beauty is
infinite loveliness, which we apprehend both by reason and
by the enthusiasm of love. The recognition of beauty as
being such depends on taste ; there can be no criterion for
it. The only approach to a definition is found in culture.
(What culture is, is not defined.) Intrinsically, art — that
which affects us through lines, colours, sounds, or words —
is not the product of blind forces, but of reasonable ones,
working, with mutual helpfulness, towards a reasonable
aim. Beauty is the reconciliation of contradictions.3

Grant Allen is a follower of Spencer, and in his
Physiological ^Esthetics (1877) he says that beauty has a
physical origin. ^Esthetic pleasures come from the con
templation of the beautiful, but the conception of beauty is
obtained by a physiological process. The origin of art is

1 Knight, p. 238. " Knight, pp. 239, 240.

3 Knight, pp. 240-243.

36 WHAT IS ART?

play ; when there is a superfluity of physical strength man
gives himself to play ; when there is a superfluity of receptive
power man gives himself to art. The beautiful is that which
affords the maximum of stimulation with the minimum of
waste. Differences in the estimation of beauty proceed from
taste. Taste can be educated. We must have faith in the
judgments "of the finest-nurtured and most discriminative "
men. These people form the taste of the next generation.1

According to Ker's Essay on the Philosophy of Art
(1883), beauty enables us to make part of the objective
world intelligible to ourselves without being troubled by
reference to other parts of it, as is inevitable for science.
So that art destroys the opposition between the one and
the many, between the law and its manifestation, between
the subject and its object, by uniting them. Art is the
revelation and vindication of freedom, because it is free
from the darkness and incomprehensibility of finite things.2

According to Knight's Philosophy of the Beautiful,
Part II. (1893), beauty is (as with Schelling) the union of
object and subject, the drawing forth from nature of that
which is cognate to man, and the recognition in oneself of
that which is common to all nature.

The opinions on beauty and on Art here mentioned are far
from exhausting what has been written on the subject. And
every day fresh writers on aesthetics arise, in whose disquisi-
tions appear the same enchanted confusion and contradictori-
ness in defining beauty. Some, by inertia, continue the
mystical aesthetics of Baumgarten and Hegel with sundry
variations; others transfer the question to the region of
subjectivity, and seek for the foundation of the beautiful in
questions of taste ; others — the aestheticians of the very latest
formation — seek the origin of beauty in the laws of physi-
ology ; and finally, others again investigate the question
quite independently of the conception of beauty. Thus,
1 Knight, pp. 250-252. 2 Knight, pp. 258, 259.

WHAT IS ART? 37

Sully in his Sensation and Intuition : Studies in Psychology
and ^Esthetics (1874), dismisses the conception of beauty
altogether, art, by his definition, being the production of
some permanent object or passing action fitted to supply
active enjoyment to the producer, and a pleasurable im
pression to a number of spectators or listeners, quite apart
from any personal advantage derived from it.1
1 Knight, p. 243.

CHAPTER IV

To what do these definitions of beauty amount? Xot
reckoning the thoroughly inaccurate definitions of beauty
which fail to cover the conception of art, and which suppose
beauty to consist either in utility, or in adjustment to a
purpose, or in symmetry, or in order, or in proportion, or in
smoothness, or in harmony of the parts, or in unity amid
variety, or in various combinations of these, — not reckoning
these unsatisfactory attempts at objective definition, all the
aesthetic definitions of beauty lead to two fundamental
conceptions. The first is that beauty is something having an
independent existence (existing in itself), that it is one of
the manifestations of the absolutely Perfect, of the Idea, of
the Spirit, of Will, or of God ; the other is that beauty is
a kind of pleasure received by us, not having personal
advantage for its object.

The first of these definitions was accepted by Fichte,
Schelling, Hegel, Schopenhauer, and the philosophising
Frenchmen, Cousin, Jouffroy, Ravaisson, and others, not to
enumerate the second-rate aesthetic philosophers. And this
same objective-mystical definition of beauty is held by a
majority of the educated people of our day. It is a conception
very widely spread, especially among the elder generation.

The second view, that beauty is a certain kind of pleasure
received by us, not having personal advantage for its aim,
finds favour chiefly among the English aesthetic writers, and is
shared by the other part of our society, principally by the
younger generation.

WHAT IS ART? 39

So there are (and it could not be otherwise) only two
definitions of beauty : the one objective, mystical, merging
this conception into that of the highest perfection, God — a
fantastic definition, founded on nothing ; the other, on the
contrary, a very simple and intelligible subjective one,
which considers beauty to be that which pleases (I do not
add to the word " pleases " the words " without the aim of
advantage," because "pleases" naturally presupposes the
absence of the idea of profit).

On the one hand, beauty is viewed as something mystical
and very elevated, but unfortunately at the same time very
indefinite, and consequently embracing philosophy, religion,
and life itself (as in the theories of Schelling and Hegel,
and their German and French followers) ; or, on the other
hand (as necessarily follows from the definition of Kant and
his adherents), beauty is simply a certain kind of disinterested
pleasure received by us. And this conception of beauty,
although it seems very clear, is, unfortunately, again inexact ;
for it widens out on the other side, i.e. it includes the
pleasure derived from drink, from food, from touching a
delicate skin, etc., as is acknowledged by Guyau, Kralik,
and others.

It is true that, following the development of the aesthetic
doctrines on beauty, we may notice that, though at first (in
the times when the foundations of the science of aesthetics
were being laid) the metaphysical definition of beauty
prevailed, yet the nearer we get to our own times the
more does an experimental definition (recently assuming a
physiological form) come to the front, so that at last we
even meet with such sestheticians as Veron and Sully, who try
to escape entirely from the conception of beauty. But such
aestheticians have very little success, and with the majority of
the public, as well as of artists and the learned, a conception
of beauty is firmly held which agrees with the definitions
contained in most of the aesthetic treatises, i.e. which regards

40 WHAT IS ART?

beauty either as something mystical or metaphysical, or as
a special kind of enjoyment.

What then is this conception of beauty, so stubbornly
held to by people of our circle and day as furnishing a
definition of art?

In the subjective aspect, we call beauty that which
supplies us with a particular kind of pleasure.

In the objective aspect, we call beauty something
absolutely perfect, and we acknowledge it to be so only
because we receive, from the manifestation of this absolute
perfection, a certain kind of pleasure ; so that this objective
definition is nothing but the subjective conception differently
expressed. In reality both conceptions of beauty amount
to one and the same thing, namely, the reception by us of
a certain kind of pleasure, i.e. we call "beauty" that which
pleases us without evoking in us desire.

Such being the position of affairs, it would seem only
natural that the science of art should decline to content
itself with a definition of art based on beauty (i.e. on that
which pleases), arid seek a general definition, which should
apply to all artistic productions, and by reference to which
we might decide whether a certain article belonged to the
realm of art or not. But no such definition is supplied, as
the reader may see from those summaries of the aesthetic
theories which I have given, and as he may discover even
more clearly from the original aesthetic works, if he will be
at the pains to read them. All attempts to define absolute
beauty in itself — whether as an imitation of nature, or as
suitability to its object, or as a correspondence of parts, or as
symmetry, or as harmony, or as unity in variety, etc. —
either define nothing at all, or define only some traits of
some artistic productions, and are far from including all
that everybody has always held, and still holds, to be art.

There is no objective definition of beauty. The existing
definitions, (both the metaphysical and the experimental),

WHAT IS ART? 41

amount only to one and the same subjective definition which
(strange as it seems to say so) is, that art is that which makes
beauty manifest, and beauty is that which pleases (without
exciting desire). Many aestheticians have felt the insufficiency
and instability of such a definition, and, in order to give it
a firm basis, have asked themselves Avhy a thing pleases.
And they have converted the discussion on beauty into
a question concerning taste, as did Hutcheson, Voltaire,
Diderot, and others. But all attempts to define what taste
is must lead to nothing, as the reader may see both from the
history of aesthetics and experimentally. There is and can
be no explanation of why one thing pleases one man and
displeases another, or vice versa. So that the whole existing
science of aesthetics fails to do what we might expect from
it, being a mental activity calling itself a science, namely,
it does not define the qualities and laws of art, or of the
beautiful (if that be the content of art), or the nature of
taste (if taste decides the question of art and its merit), and
then, on the basis of such definitions, acknowledge as art
those productions which correspond to these laws, and reject
those which do not come under them. But this science of
aesthetics consists in first acknowledging a certain set of
productions to be art (because they please us), and then
framing such a theory of art that all those productions which
please a certainTcTi'cle of people should fit into it. There
exists an art canon, according to which certain productions
favoured by our circle are acknowledged as being art, —
Phidias, Sophocles, Homer, Titian, Raphael, Bach, Beethoven,
Dante, Shakespear, Goethe, and others, — and the aesthetic
laws must be such as to embrace all these productions. In
aesthetic literature you will incessantly meet with opinions
on the merit and importance of art, founded not on any
certain laws by which this or that is held to be good or bad,
but merely on the consideration whether this art tallies with
the art canon we have drawn up.

42 WHAT IS ART?

The other day I was reading a far from ill-written book
by Folgeldt. Discussing the demand for morality in works
of art, the author plainly says that we must not demand
morality in art. And in proof of this he advances the fact
that if we admit such a demand, Shakespear's Romeo and
Juliet and Goethe's Wilhelm Meister would not fit into the
definition of good art; but since both these books are
included in our canon of art, he concludes that the demand is
unjust. And therefore it is necessary to find a definition of
art which shall fit the works ; and instead of a demand for
morality, Folgeldt postulates as the basis of art a demand
for the important (Bedeutungsvolles).

All the existing aesthetic standards are built on this plan.
Instead of giving a definition of true art, and then deciding
what is and what is not good art by judging whether a
work conforms or does not conform to the definition, a
certain class of works, which for some reason please a certain
circle of people, is accepted as being art, and a definition of
art is then devised to cover all these productions. I recently
came upon a remarkable instance of this method in a very
good German work, The History of Art in the Nineteenth
Century, by Muther. Describing the pre-Eaphaelites, the
Decadents and the Symbolists (who are already included in
the canon of art), he not only does not venture to blame
their tendency, but earnestly endeavours to widen his
standard so that it may include them all, they appearing to
him to represent a legitimate reaction from the excesses of
realism. No matter what insanities appear in art, when
once they find acceptance among the upper classes of our
society a theory is quickly invented to explain and sanction
them ; just as if there had never been periods in history when
certain special circles of people recognised and approved
false, deformed, and insensate art which subsequently left
no trace and has been utterly forgotten. And to what
lengths the insanity and deformity of art may go, especially

WHAT IS ART? 43

when, as in our days, it knows that it is considered infallible,
may be seen by what is being done in the art of our circle
to-day.

So that the theory of art, founded on beauty, expounded
by aesthetics, and, in dim outline, professed by the public, is
nothing but the setting up as good, of that which has pleased
and pleases us, i.e. pleases a certain class of people.

In order to define any human activity, it is necessary to
understand its sense and importance. And, in order to do
that, it is primarily necessary to examine that activity in
itself, in its dependence on its causes, and in connection
with its effects, and not merely in relation to the pleasure
we can get from it.

If we say that the aim of any activity is merely our
pleasure, and define it solely by that pleasure, our definition
will evidently be a false one. But this is precisely what
has occurred in the efforts to define art. Now, if we
consider the food question, it will not occur to anyone to
affirm that the importance of food consists in the pleasure
we receive when eating it. Everyone understands that the
satisfaction of our taste cannot serve as a basis for our
definition of the merits of food, and that we have therefore
no right to presuppose that the dinners with cayenne pepper,
Limburg cheese, alcohol, etc., to which we are accustomed
and which please us, form the very best human food.

And in the same way, beauty, or that which pleases us,
can in no sense serve as the basis for the definition of art ;
nor can a series of objects which afford us pleasure serve as
the model of what art should be.

To see the aim and purpose of art in the pleasure we get
from it, is like assuming (as is done by people of the lowest
moral development, e.g. by savages) that the purpose and
aim of food is the pleasure derived when consuming it.

Just as people who conceive the aim and purpose of food
to be pleasure cannot recognise the real meaning of eating,

44 WHAT IS ART?

so people who consider the aim of art to be pleasure cannot
realise its true meaning and purpose, because they attribute
to an activity, the meaning of which lies in its connection
with other phenomena of life, the false and exceptional aim
of pleasure. People come to understand that the meaning
of eating lies in the nourishment of the body only when
they cease to consider that the object of that activity is
pleasure. And it is the same with regard to art. People
will come to understand the meaning of art only when they
cease to consider that the aim of that activity is beauty, i.e.
pleasure. The acknowledgment of beauty (i.e. of a certain
kind of pleasure received from art) as being the aim of art,
not only fails to assist us in finding a definition of what
art is, but, on the contrary, by transferring the question
into a region quite foreign to art (into metaphysical,
psychological, physiological, and even historical discussions
as to why such a production pleases one person, and such
another displeases or pleases someone else), it renders such
definition impossible. And since discussions as to why one
man likes pears and another prefers meat do not help towards
finding a definition of what is essential in nourishment, so
the solution of questions of taste in art (to which the
discussions on art involuntarily come) not only doos not
help to make clear what this particular human activity
which we call art really consists in, but renders such
elucidation quite impossible, until we rid ourselves of a
conception which justifies every kind of art, at the cost of
confusing the whole matter.

To the question, What is this art, to which is offered up
the labour of millions, the very lives of men, and even
morality itself ? we have extracted replies from the existing
aesthetics, which all amount to this : that the aim of art is
beauty, that beauty is recognised by the enjoyment it gives,
and that artistic enjoyment is a good and important thing,
because it is enjoyment. In a word, that enjoyment is good

WHAT IS ART? 45

because it is enjoyment. Thus, what is considered the
definition of art is no definition at all, but only a shuffle
to justify existing art. Therefore, however strange it may
seem to say so, in spite of the mountains of books written
about art, no exact definition of art has been constructed.
And the reason of this is that the conception of art has
been based on the conception of beauty.

CHAPTER V

WHAT is art, if we put aside the conception of beauty,
which confuses the whole matter 1 The latest and most com
prehensible definitions of art, apart from the conception of
beauty, are the following : — (1 a) Art is an activity arising
even in the animal kingdom, and springing from sexual
desire and the propensity to play (Schiller, Darwin, Spencer),
and (1 b) accompanied by a pleasurable excitement of the
nervous system (Grant Allen). This is the physiological-
evolutionary definition. (2) Art is the external manifestation,
by means of lines, colours, movements, sounds, or words,
of emotions felt by man (V6ron). This is the experimental
definition. According to the very latest definition (Sully),
(3) Art is "the production of some permanent object, or
passing action, which is fitted not only to supply an active
enjoyment to the producer, but to convey a pleasurable
impression to a number of spectators or listeners, quite apart
from any personal advantage to be derived from it."

Notwithstanding the superiority of these definitions to the
metaphysical definitions which depended on the conception
of beauty, they are yet far from exact. (1 a) The first, the
physiological-evolutionary definition, is inexact, because,
instead of speaking about the artistic activity itself, which
is the real matter in hand, it treats of the derivation of art.
The modification of it (1 6), based on the physiological effects
on the human organism, is inexact, because within the limits
of such definition many other human .ctrvities can be
included, as has occurred in the neo-aesthetic theories, which

46

WHAT IS ART? 47

reckon as art the preparation of handsome clothes, pleasant
scents, and even of victuals.

The experimental definition (2), which makes art consist
in the expression of emotions, is inexact, because a man may
express his emotions by means of lines, colours, sounds, or
words, and yet may not act on others by such expression ;
and then the manifestation of his emotions is not art.

The third definition (that of Sully) is inexact, because
in the production of objects or actions affording pleasure
to the producer and a pleasant emotion to the spectators
or hearers apart from personal advantage, may be included
the showing of conjuring tricks or gymnastic exercises,
and other activities which are not art. And, further,
many things, the production of which does not afford
pleasure to the producer, and the sensation received from
which is unpleasant, such as gloomy, heart-rending scenes
in a poetic description or a play, may nevertheless be
undoubted works of art.

The inaccuracy of all these definitions arises from the fact
that in them all (as also in the metaphysical definitions) the
object considered is the pleasure art may give, and not the
purpose it may serve in the life of man and of humanity.

In order correctly to define art, it is necessary, first of all,
to cease to consider it as a means to pleasure, and to consider .
it as one of the conditions of human life. Viewing it in
this way, we cannot fail to observe that art is one of the
means of intercourse between man and man.

Every work of art causes the receiver to enter into a
certain kind of relationship both with him who produced,
or is producing, the art, and with all those who, simul
taneously, previously or subsequently, receive the same
artistic impression.

Speech, transmitting the thoughts and experiences of
men, serves as a means of union among them, and art acts
in a similar manner. The peculiarity of this latter means

48 WHAT IS ART?

of intercourse, distinguishing it from intercourse by means
of words, consists in this, that whereas by words a man
transmits his thoughts to another, by means of art he
transmits his feelings.

The activity of art is based on the fact that a man,
receiving through his sense of hearing or sight another
man's expression of feeling, is capable of experiencing the
•emotion which moved the man who expressed it. To take
the simplest example : one man laughs, and another, who
hears, becomes merry; or a man weeps, and another, who
hears, feels sorrow. A man is excited or irritated, and
•another man, seeing him, comes to a similar state of mind.
By his movements, or by the sounds of his voice, a man
expresses courage and determination, or sadness and calm
ness, and this state of mind passes on to others. A man
suffers, expressing his sufferings by groans and spasms,
and this suffering transmits itself to other people ; a man
expresses his feeling of admiration, devotion, fear, respect, or
love to certain objects, persons, or phenomena, and others
are infected by the same feelings of admiration, devotion,
fear, respect, or love to the same objects, persons, and
phenomena.

And it is on this capacity of man to receive another man's
expression of feeling, and experience those feelings himself,
that the activity of art is based.

If a man infects another or others, directly, immediately, by
his appearance, or by the sounds he gives vent to at the very
time he experiences the feeling ; if he causes another man
to yawn when he himself cannot help yawning, or to laugh
or cry when he himself is obliged to laugh or cry, or to suffer
when he himself is suffering — that does not amount to art.

Art begins when one person, with the object of joining
another or others to himself in one and the same feeling,
expresses that feeling by certain external indications. To
take the simplest example : a boy, having experienced, let us

WHAT IS ART? 49

say, fear on encountering a wolf, relates that encounter ; and,
in order to evoke in others the feeling he has experienced,
describes himself, his condition before the encounter, the
surroundings, the wood, his own lightheartedness, and then
the wolf's appearance, its movements, the distance between
himself and the wolf, etc. All this, if only the boy when
telling the story, again experiences the feelings he had lived
through and infects the hearers and compels them to feel
what the narrator had experienced, is art. If even the
boy had not seen a wolf but had frequently been afraid of
one, and if, wishing to evoke in others the fear he had felt,
he invented an encounter with a wolf, and recounted it so
as to make his hearers share the feelings he experienced
when he feared the wolf, that also would be art. And
just in the same way it is art if a man, having experienced
either the fear of suffering or the attraction of enjoyment
(whether in reality or in imagination), expresses these
feelings on canvas or in marble so that others are infected
by them. And it is also art if a man feels or imagines
to himself feelings of delight, gladness, sorrow, despair,
courage, or Despondency^ and the transition from one to
another of these feelings, and expresses these feelings by
sounds, so that the hearers are infected by them, and
experience them as they were experienced by the composer.

The feelings with which the artist infects others may be
most various — very strong or very weak, very important or
very insignificant, very bad or very good : feelings of love
for native land, self-devotion and submission to fate or to
God expressed in a drama, raptures of lovers described in
a novel, feelings of voluptuousness expressed in a picture,
courage expressed in a triumphal inarch, merriment evoked
by a dance, humour evoked by a funny story, the feeling
of quietness transmitted by an evening landscape or by a
lullaby, or the feeling of admiration evoked by a beautiful
arabesque — it is all art.
4

50 WHAT IS ART?

If only the spectators or auditors are infected by the
feelings which the author has felt, it is art.

To evoke in oneself a feeling one has once experienced, and
having evoked it in oneself, then, by means of movements, lines,
colours, sounds, or forms expressed in ivords, so to transmit
that feeling that others may experience the same feeling —
this is the activity of art.

Art is a human activity, consisting in this, that one man
consciously, by means of certain external signs, hands on to
others feelings he has lived through, and that other people
are infected by these feelings, and also experience them.

Art is not, as the metaphysicians say, the manifestation
of some mysterious Idea of beauty, or God ; it is not, as the
sesthetical physiologists say, a game in which man lets off his
excess of stored-up energy ; it is not the expression of man's
emotions by external signs; it is not the production of
pleasing objects ; and, above all, it is not pleasure ; but it is
a means of union among men, joining them together in the
same feelings, and indispensable for the life and progress
towards well-being of individuals and of humanity.

As, thanks to man's capacity to express thoughts by words,
every man may know all that has been done for him in the
realms of thought by all humanity before his day, and can, in
the present, thanks to this capacity to understand the thoughts
of others, become a sharer in their activity, and can himself
hand on to his contemporaries and descendants the thoughts
he has assimilated from others, as well as those which have
arisen within himself; so, thanks to man's capacity to be
infected with the feelings of others by means of art, all that
is being lived through by his contemporaries is accessible to
him, as well as the feelings experienced by men thousands of
years ago, and he has also the possibility of transmitting his
own feelings to others.

If people lacked this capacity to receive the thoughts
conceived by the men who preceded them, and to pass on to

WHAT IS ART? 51

others their own thoughts, men would he like wild beasts, or
like Ivaspar Hauser.1

And if men lacked this other capacity of being infected by
art, people might be almost more savage still, and, above all,
more separated from, and more hostile to, one another.

And therefore the activity of art is a most important one,
as important as the activity of speech itself, and as generally
diffused.

We are accustomed to understand art to be only what we
hear and see in theatres, concerts, and exhibitions ; together
with buildings, statues, poems, novels. . . . But all this is but
the smallest part of the art by which we communicate with
each other in life. All human life is filled with works of
art of every kind — from cradle-song, jest, mimicry, the
ornamentation of houses, dress and utensils, up to church
services, buildings, monuments, and triumphal processions.
It is all artistic activity. So that by art, in the limited
sense of the word, we do not mean all human activity
transmitting feelings, but only that part which we for
some reason select from it and to which we attach special
importance.

This special importance has always been given by all
men to that part of this activity which transmits feelings
flowing from their religious perception, and this small part
of art they have specifically called art, attaching to it the
full meaning of the word.

That was how men of old — Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle
— looked on art. Thus did the Hebrew prophets and the
ancient Christians regard art; thus it was, and still is,

1 "The foundling ol' Nuremberg," found in the market-place of
that town on 26th May 1828, apparently some sixteen years old.
He spoke little, and was almost totally ignorant even of common
objects. He subsequently explained that he had been brought up in
confinement underground, and visited by only one man, whom he saw
but seldom. — Trans.

52 WHAT IS ART?

understood by the Mahommedans, and thus is it still under
stood by religious folk among our own peasantry.

Some teachers of mankind — as Plato in his Republic,
and people such as the primitive Christians, the strict
Mahommedans, and the Buddhists — have gone so far as to
repudiate all art.

People viewing art in this way (in contradiction to the
prevalent view of to-day, which regards any art as good if
only it affords pleasure) considered, and consider, that art
(as contrasted with speech, which need not be listened to) is so
highly dangerous in its power to infect people against their
wills, that mankind will lose far less by banishing all art
than by tolerating each and every art.

Evidently such people were wrong in repudiating all
art, for they denied that which cannot be denied — one of
the indispensable means of communication, without which
mankind could not exist. But not less wrong are the people
of civilised European society of our class and day, in
favouring any art if it but serves beauty, i.e. gives people
pleasure.

Formerly, people feared lest among the works of art
there might chance to be some causing corruption, and they
prohibited art altogether. Now, they only fear lest they
should be deprived of any enjoyment art can afford, and
patronise any art. And I think the last error is much
grosser than the first, and that its consequences are far
more harmful.

CHAPTER VI

Bur how could it happen that that very art, which in
ancient times was merely tolerated (if tolerated at all),
should have come, in our times, to be invariably considered
a good thing if only it affords pleasure 1

It has resulted from the following causes. The estimation
of the value of art (i.e. of the feelings it transmits) depends
on men's perception of the meaning of life ; depends on
what they consider to be the good and the evil of life.
And what is good and what is evil is denned by what are
termed religions.

Humanity unceasingly moves forward from a lower, more
partial, and obscure understanding of life, to one more
general and more lucid. And in this, as in every movement,
there are leaders, — those who have understood the meaning
of life more clearly than others, — and of these advanced men
there is always one who has, in his words and by his life,
expressed this meaning more clearly, accessibly, and strongly
than others. This man's expression of the meaning of life,
together with those superstitions, traditions, and ceremonies
which usually form themselves round the memory of such a
man, is what is called a religion. Religions are the ex
ponents of the highest comprehension of life accessible to
the best and foremost men at a given time in a given society ;
a comprehension towards which, inevitably and irresistibly,
all the rest of that society must advance. And therefore
only religions have always served, and still serve, as bases
for the valuation of human sentiments. If feelings bring

53 ,

54 WHAT IS ART?

men nearer the ideal their religion indicates, if they are
in harmony with it and do not contradict it, they are good ;
if they estrange men from, it and oppose it, they are bad.

If the religion places the meaning of life in worshipping
one God and fulfilling what is regarded as His will, as was
the case among the Jews, then the feelings flowing from
love to that God, and to His law, successfully transmitted
through the art of poetry by the prophets, by the psalms, or
by the epic of the book of Genesis, is good, high art. All
opposing that, as for instance the transmission of feelings
of devotion to strange gods, or of feelings incompatible with
the law of God, would be considered bad art. Or if, as
was the case among the Greeks, the religion places the
meaning of life in earthly happiness, in beauty and in
strength, then art successfully transmitting the joy and
energy of life would be considered good art, but art which
transmitted feelings of effeminacy or despondency would be
bad art. If the meaning of life is seen in the well-being
of one's nation, or in honouring one's ancestors and con
tinuing the mode of life led by them, as was the case among
the Romans and the Chinese respectively, then art trans
mitting feelings of joy at sacrificing one's personal well-being
for the common weal, or at exalting one's ancestors and
maintaining their traditions, would be considered good art ;
but art expressing feelings contrary to this would be regarded
as bad. If the meaning of life is seen in freeing oneself from
the yoke of animalism, as is the case among the Buddhists,
then art successfully transmitting feelings that elevate the
soul and humble the flesh will be good art, and all that
transmits feelings strengthening the bodily passions will be
bad art.

In every age, and in every human society, there exists a
religious sense, common to that whole society, of what is
good and what is bad, and it is this religious conception
that decides the value of the feelings transmitted by art.

WHAT IS ART? 55

And therefore, among all nations, art which transmitted
feelings considered to be good by this general religious
sense was recognised as being good and was encouraged ;
but art which transmitted feelings considered to be bad by
this general religious conception, was recognised as being
bad, and was rejected. All the rest of the immense field
of art by means of which people communicate one with
another, was not esteemed at all, and was only noticed when
it ran counter to the religious conception of its age, and
then merely to be repudiated. Thus it was among all
nations, — Greeks, Jews, Indians, Egyptians, and Chinese,
— and so it was when Christianity appeared.

The Christianity of the first centuries recognised as
productions of good art, only legends, lives of saints,
sermons, prayers and hymn-singing, evoking love of Christ,
emotion at his life, desire to follow his example, renuncia
tion of worldly life, humility, and the love of others ; all
productions transmitting feelings of personal enjoyment
they considered to be bad, and therefore rejected : for
instance, tolerating plastic representations only when they
were symbolical, they rejected all the pagan sculptures.

This was so among the Christians of the first centuries,
who accepted Christ's teaching, if not quite in its true form,
at least not in the perverted, paganised form in which it
was accepted subsequently.

But besides this Christianity, from the time of the whole
sale conversion of nations by order of the authorities, as in
the days of Constantino, Charlemagne, and Vladimir, there
appeared another, a Church Christianity, which was nearer
to paganism than to Christ's teaching. And this Church
Christianity, in accordance with its own teaching, estimated
quite otherwise the feelings of people and the productions
of art which transmitted those feelings.

This Church Christianity not only did not acknowledge the
fundamental and essential positions of true Christianity, —

56 WHAT IS ART?

the immediate relationship of each man to the Father, the
consequent brotherhood and equality of all men, and the
substitution of humility and love in place of every kind of
violence — but, on the contrary, having set up a heavenly
hierarchy similar to the pagan mythology, and having intro
duced the worship of Christ, of the Virgin, of angels, of
apostles, of saints, and of martyrs, and not only of these
divinities themselves, but also of their images, it made blind
faith in the Church and its ordinances the essential point of
its teaching.

However foreign this teaching may have been to true
Christianity, however degraded, not only in comparison
with true Christianity, but even with the life-conception of
Romans such as Julian and others ; it was, for all that,
to the barbarians who accepted it, a higher doctrine
than their former adoration of gods, heroes, and good
and bad spirits. And therefore this teaching was a
religion to them, and on the basis of that religion the
art of the time was assessed. And art transmitting pious
adoration of the Virgin, Jesus, the saints and the angels,
a blind faith in and submission to the Church, fear of
torments and hope of blessedness in a life beyond the
grave, was considered good ; all art opposed to this was
considered bad.

The teaching on the basis of which this art arose was a
perversion of Christ's teaching, but the art which sprang up
on this perverted teaching was nevertheless a true art,
because it corresponded to the religious view of life held by
the people among whom it arose.

The artists of the Middle Ages, vitalised by the same
source of feeling — religion — as the mass of the people, and
transmitting, in architecture, sculpture, painting, music,
poetry or drama, the feelings and states of mind they
experienced, were true artists ; and their activity, founded
on the highest conceptions accessible to their age and

WHAT IS ART? 57

common to the entire people, though, for our times a
mean art, was, nevertheless a true one, shared by the
whole community.

And this was the state of things until, in the upper, rich,
more educated classes of European society, doubt arose as to
the truth of that understanding of life which was expressed
by Church Christianity. When, after the Crusades and the
maximum development of papal power and its abuses,
people of the rich classes became acquainted with the wisdom
of the classics, and saw, on the one hand, the reasonable
lucidity of the teaching of the ancient sages, and, on the
other hand, the incompatibility of the Church doctrine with
the teaching of Christ, they lost all possibility of continuing
to believe the Church teaching.

If, in externals, they still kept to the forms of Church
teaching, they could no longer believe in it, and held to ib
only by inertia and for the sake of influencing the masses,
who continued to believe blindly in Church doctrine, and
whom the upper classes, for their own advantage, considered
it necessary to support in those beliefs.

So that a time came when Church Christianity ceased to
be the general religious doctrine of all Christian people;
some — the masses — continued blindly to believe in it, but
the upper classes — those in whose hands lay the power and
wealth, and therefore the leisure to produce art and the
means to stimulate it — ceased to believe in that teaching.

In respect to religion, the upper circles of the Middle Ages
found themselves in the same position in which the educated
Romans were before Christianity arose, i.e. they no longer
believed in the religion of the masses, but had no beliefs to
put in place of the worn-out Church doctrine which for them
had lost its meaning.

There was only this difference, that whereas for the
Romans who lost faith in their emperor-gods and household-
gods it was impossible to extract anything further from all

58 WHAT IS ART?

the complex mythology they had borrowed from all the
conquered nations, and it was consequently necessary to find
a completely new conception of life, the people of the Middle
Ages, when they doubted the truth of the Church teaching,
had no need to seek a fresh one. That Christian teaching
which they professed in a perverted form as Church doctrine,
had mapped out the path of human progress so far ahead,
that they had but to rid themselves of those perversions
which hid the teaching announced by Christ, and to adopt
its real meaning — if not completely, then at least in some
greater degree than that in which the Church had held it.
And this was partially done, not only in the reformations of
Wyclif, Huss, Luther, and Calvin, but by all that current
of non-Church Christianity, represented in earlier times
by the Paulicians, the Bogomili,1 and, afterwards, by the
Waldenses and the other non-Church Christians who were
called heretics. But this could be, and was, done chiefly
by poor people — who did not rule. A few of the rich and
strong, like Francis of Assisi and others, accepted the
Christian teaching in its full significance, even though it
undermined their privileged positions. But most people of
the upper classes (though in the depth of their souls they
had lost faith in the Church teaching) could not or would
not act thus, because the essence of that Christian view
of life, which stood ready to be adopted when once they
rejected the Church faith, was a teaching of the brotherhood
(and therefore the equality) of man, and this negatived
those privileges on which they lived, in which they had
grown up and been educated, and to which they were
accustomed. Not, in the depth of their hearts, believing in
the Church teaching, — which had outlived its age and had
no longer any true meaning for them, — and not being strong

1 Eastern sects well known in early Church history, who rejected
the Church's rendering of Christ's teaching and were cruelly per
secuted. —Trans.

WHAT IS ART? 59

enough to accept true Christianity, men of these rich,
governing classes — popes, kings, dukes, and all the great ones
of the earth — were left without any religion, with but the
external forms of one, which they supported as being
profitable and even necessary for themselves, since these
forms screened a teaching which justified those privileges
which they made use of. In reality, these people believed
in nothing, just as the Eomans of the first centuries of our
era believed in nothing. But at the same time these were
the people who had the power and the wealth, and these
were the people who rewarded art and directed it.

And, let it be noticed, it was just among these people that
there grew up an art esteemed not according to its success in
expressing men's religious feelings, but in proportion to its
beauty, — in other words, according to the enjoyment it
gave.

No longer able to believe in the Church religion whose
falsehood they had detected, and incapable of accepting true
Christian teaching, which denounced their whole manner of
life, these rich and powerful people, stranded without any
religious conception of life, involuntarily returned to that
pagan view of things which places life's meaning in personal
enjoyment. And then took place among the upper classes
what is called the "Renaissance of science and art," and
which was really not only a denial of every religion but
also an assertion that religion is unnecessary.

The Church doctrine is so coherent a system that it cannot
be altered or corrected without destroying it altogether. As
soon as doubt arose with regard to the infallibility of the
pope (and this doubt was then in the minds of all educated
people), doubt inevitably followed as to the truth of tradition.
But doubt as to the truth of tradition is fatal not only to
popery and Catholicism, but also to the whole Church creed
with all its dogmas : the divinity of Christ, the resurrection,
and the Trinity ; and it destroys the authority of the

60 WHAT IS ART J

Scriptures, since they were considered to be inspired only
because the tradition of the Church decided it so.

So that the majority of the highest classes of that age,
even the popes and the ecclesiastics, really believed in
nothing at all. In the Church doctrine these people did
not believe, for they saw its insolvency ; but neither could
they follow Francis of Assisi, Keltchitsky,1 and most of the
heretics, in acknowledging the moral, social teaching of
Christ, for that teaching undermined their social position.
And so these people remained without any religious view
of life. And, having none, they could have no standard
wherewith to estimate what was good and what was bad art
but that of personal enjoyment. And, having acknowledged
their criterion of what was good to be pleasure, i.e. beauty,
these people of the upper classes of European society went
back in their comprehension of art to the gross conception
of the primitive Greeks which Plato had already condemned.
And conformably to this understanding of life a theory of
art was formulated.

1 Keltchitsky, a Bohemian of the fifteenth century, was the author
of a remarkable book, The Net of Faith, directed against Church and
State. It is mentioned in Tolstoy's The Kingdom of God is Within
You. — Trans.

CHAPTER VII

FROM the time that people of the upper classes lost faith in
Church Christianity, beauty (i.e. the pleasure received from
art) became their standard of good and bad art. And, in
accordance with that view, an aesthetic theory naturally sprang
up among those upper classes justifying such a conception, —
a theory according to which the aim of art is to exhibit
beauty. The partisans of this aesthetic theory, in confirma
tion of its truth, affirmed that it was no invention of their
own, but that it existed in the nature of things, and was
recognised even by the ancient Greeks. But this assertion
was quite arbitrary, and has no foundation other than the
fact that among the ancient Greeks, in consequence of
the low grade of their moral ideal (as compared with the
Christian), their conception of the good, TO <lya#6V, was not
yet sharply divided from their conception of the beautiful,

That highest perfection of goodness (not only not identical
with beauty, but, for the most part, contrasting with it) which
was discerned by the Jews even in the times of Isaiah, and
fully expressed by Christianity, was quite unknown to the
Greeks. They supposed that the beautiful must necessarily
also be the good. It is true that their foremost thinkers —
Socrates, Plato, Aristotle — felt that goodness may happen not
to coincide with beauty. Socrates expressly subordinated
beauty to goodness; Plato, to unite the two conception?,
spoke of spiritual beauty ; while Aristotle demanded from art
that it should have a moral influence on people (/ca#apo-is).

61

62 WHAT IS ART?

But, notwithstanding all this," they could not quite dismiss
the notion that beauty and goodness coincide.

And consequently, in the language of that period, a
compound word (/caAo-icdya&'a, beauty-goodness), came into
use to express that notion.

Evidently the Greek sages began to draw near to that
perception of goodness which is expressed in Buddhism and
in Christianity, and they got entangled in denning the
relation between goodness and beauty. Plato's reasonings
about beauty and goodness are full of contradictions. And
it was just this confusion of ideas that those Europeans of
a later age, who had lost all faith, tried to elevate into a
law. They tried to prove that this union of beauty and
goodness is inherent in the very essence of things ;
that beauty and goodness must coincide; and that
the word and conception KaX.o-KayaOta (which had a
meaning for Greeks but has none at all for Christians)
represents the highest ideal of humanity. On this mis
understanding the new science of aesthetics was built up.
And, to justify its existence, the teachings of the ancients
on art were so twisted as to make it appear that this
invented science of aesthetics had existed among the Greeks.

In reality, the reasoning of the ancients on art was quite
unlike ours. As Benard, in his book on the aesthetics of
Aristotle, quite justly remarks : " Pour qui veut y regarderde
pre.<, la theorie du beau et celle de I'art sont tout a fait separees
dans Aristote, comme elles le sont dans Platon et chez tons
leurs successeurs " (L'esthetique d'Aristote et de ses successeurs,
Paris, 1889, p. 28).1 And indeed the reasoning of the
ancients on art not only does not confirm our science of
aesthetics, but rather contradicts its doctrine of beauty. But
nevertheless all the aesthetic guides, from Schasler to Knight,

1 Any one examining closely may see that the theory of beauty and
that of art are quite separated in Aristotle as they are in Plato and in
all their successors.

WHAT IS ART? 63

declare that the science of the beautiful — aesthetic science —
was commenced by the ancients, by Socrates, Plato, Aristotle ;
and was continued, they say, partially by the Epicureans
and Stoics : by Seneca and Plutarch, down to Plotinus. But
it is supposed that this science, by some unfortunate accident,
suddenly vanished in the fourth century, and stayed away for
about 1500 years, and only after these 1500 years had passed
did it revive in Germany, A.D. 1750, in Baumgarten's doctrine.

After Plotinus, says Schasler, fifteen centuries passed
away during which there was not the slightest scientific
interest felt for the world of beauty and art. These one
and a half thousand years, says he, have been lost to aesthetics
and have contributed nothing towards the erection of the
learned edifice of this science.1

In reality nothing of the kind happened. The science of
aesthetics, the science of the beautiful, neither did nor could
vanish because it never existed. Simply, the Greeks (just

1 Die Liicke von fiinf Jalirhunderten, welche zwischen den Kunst-
philosophischen Betrachtuugen des Plato und Aristoteles und die des
Plotins falltj kanii zwar auffallig erseheinen ; denuoch kann man
eigentlich nicht sagen, dass in diesef Zwischenzeit uberhaupt von
iisthetischen Dingen nicht die Rede gevvesen ; oder dass gar ein volliger
Mangel an Zusarnmenhang zwischen den Kunst-anschauungen des
letztgenanuten PMlosophen und denen der ersteren existire. Freilich
wurde die von Aristoteles begriindete Wissenschaft in Nichts dadurch
gefordert ; immerhin aber zeigt sich in jener Zwischenzeit noch
ein gewisses Interesse fiir ii.sthetisclie Fragen. Nach Plotin aber, die
wenigen, ihm in der Zeit nahestehenden Philosophen, wie Longinr
Augustin, u. s. f. konimen, wie wir gesehen, kaum in Betracht und
schliessen sich iibrigens in ihrer Anschauungswcise an ihn an, —
vergehen nicht fiinf, sondern funfzehn Jahrhunderte, in denen von
irgend einer wissenschaftlicheii Interesse fiir die Welt des Schonen und
der Kunst nichts zu spiiren ist.

Diese anderthalbtauseud Jahre, innerhalb deren der Weltgeist
durch die rnannigfachsten Kampfe hindurch zu einer vollig neuen
Gestaltung des Lebens sich durcharbeitete, sind fiir die Aesthetik,
hinsichtlich des weitereu Ausbaus dieser Wissenschaft verloren. — ]\lax
Schasler.

64 WHAT IS ART ?

like everybody else, always and everywhere) considered
art (like everything else) good only when it served goodness
(as they understood goodness), and bad when it was in
opposition to that goodness. And the Greeks themselves
were so little developed morally, that goodness and beauty
seemed to them to coincide. On that obsolete Greek view
of life was erected the science of aesthetics, invented by men
of the eighteenth century, and especially shaped and
mounted in Baumgarten's theory. The Greeks (as anyone
may see who will read Benard's admirable book on Aristotle
and his successors, and Walter's work on Plato) never had a
science of aesthetics.

^Esthetic theories arose about one hundred and fifty
years ago among the wealthy classes of the Christian
European world, and arose simultaneously among different
nations, — German, Italian, Dutch, French, and English.
The founder and organiser of it, who gave it a scientific,
theoretic form, was Baumgarten.

With a characteristically German, external exactitude,
pedantry and symmetry, he devised and expounded this
extraordinary theory. And, notwithstanding its obvious
insolidity, nobody else's theory so pleased the cultured
crowd, or was accepted so readily and with such an
absence of criticism. It so suited the people of the upper
classes, that to this day, notwithstanding its entirely fantastic
character and the arbitrary nature of its assertions, it is
repeated by learned and unlearned as though it were some
thing indubitable and self-evident.

Habent sua fata libelli pro capite lectoris, and so, or even
more so, theories Jiabent sua fata according to the condition
of error in which that society is living, among whom and for
whom the theories are invented. If a theory justifies the false
position in which a certain part of a society is living, then,
however unfounded or even obviously false the theory may
be, it is accepted, and becomes an article of faith to that

WHAT IS ART? 65

section of society. Such, for instance, was the celebrated and
unfounded theory expounded by Malthus, of the tendency
of the population of the world to increase in geometrical
progression, but of the means of sustenance to increase only
in arithmetical progression, and of the consequent over
population of the world ; such, also, was the theory (an
outgrowth of the Malthusian) of selection and struggle for
existence as the basis of human progress. Such, again, is
.Marx's theory, which regards the gradual destruction of
small private production by large capitalistic production
now going on around us, as an inevitable decree of fate.
However unfounded such theories are, however contrary to
all that is known and confessed by humanity, and however
obviously immoral they may be, they are accepted with
credulity, pass uncriticised, and are preached, perchance
for centuries, until the conditions are destroyed which they
served to justify, or until their absurdity has become too
evident. To this class belongs this astonishing theory of
the Baumgartenian. Trinity — Goodness, Beauty, and Truth,
according to which it appears that the very best that can be
done by the art of nations after 1900 years of Christian
teaching, is to choose as the ideal of their life the ideal that
was held by a small, semi-savage, slave-holding people
who lived 2000 years ago, who imitated the nude human
body extremely well, and erected buildings pleasant to look
at. All these incompatibilities pass completely unnoticed.
Learned people write long, cloudy treatises on beauty as a
member of the aesthetic trinity of Beauty, Truth, and Good
ness ; das Schone, das Wahre, das Gute ; le Beau, le Vrai,
Ic Bon, are repeated, with capital letters, by philosophers,
restheticians and artists, by private individuals, by novelists
and by feuilletonistes, and they all think, when pronouncing
these sacrosanct words, that they speak of something quite
definite and solid — something on which they can base their :
opinions. In reality, these words not only have no definite
5

66 WHAT IS ART?

meaning, but they hinder us in attaching any definite mean
ing to existing art ; they are wanted only for the purpose of
justifying the false importance we attribute to an art that
transmits every kind of feeling if only those feelings afford
us pleasure.

CHAPTER VIII

BUT if art is a human activity having for its purpose the
transmission to others of the highest and best feelings to
which men have risen, how could it be that humanity
for a certain rather considerable period of its existence
(from the time people ceased to believe in Church doctrine
down to the present day) should exist without this im
portant activity, and, instead of it, should put up with an
insignificant artistic activity only affording pleasure ?

In order to answer this question, it is necessary, first of
all, to correct the current error people make in attributing
to our art the significance of true, universal art. We are
so accustomed, not only naively to consider the Circassian
family the best stock of people, but also the Anglo-Saxon
race the best race if we are Englishmen or Americans, or
the Teutonic if we are Germans, or the Gallo-Latin if we are
French, or the Slavonic if we are Russians, that when
speaking of our own art we feel fully convinced, not only
that our art is true art, but even that it is the best and only
true art. But in reality our art is not only not the only art
(as the Bible once was held to be the only book), but it is
not even the art of the whole of Christendom, — only of a
small section of that part of humanity. It was correct to
speak of a national Jewish, Grecian, or Egyptian art, and one
may speak of a now-existing Chinese, Japanese, or Indian art
shared in by a whole people. Such art, common to a whole
nation, existed in Russia till Peter the First's time, and existed
in the rest of Europe until the thirteenth or fourteenth

67

68 WHAT IS ART?

century ; but since the upper classes of European society,
having lost faith in the Church teaching, did not accept real
Christianity but remained without any faith, one can 110
longer speak of an art of the Christian nations in the sense
of the whole of art. Since the upper classes of the Christian
nations lost faith in Church Christianity, the art of those
upper classes has separated itself from the art of the rest of
the people, and there have been two arts — the art of the
people and genteel art. And therefore the answer to the
question how it could occur that humanity lived for a
certain period without real art, replacing it by art which
served enjoyment only, is, that not all humanity, nor even
any considerable portion of it, lived without real art, but
only the highest classes of European Christian society, and
even they only for a comparatively short time — from the
commencement of the Renaissance down to our own day.

And the consequence of this absence of true art showed
itself, inevitably, in the corruption of that class which
nourished itself on the false art. All the confused, unin
telligible theories of art, all the false and contradictory
judgments on art, and particularly the self-confident stagna
tion of our art in its false path, all arise from the assertion,
which has come into common use and is accepted as an
unquestioned truth, but is yet amazingly and palpably false,
the assertion, namely, that the art of our upper classes l is
the whole of art, the true, the only, the universal art. And
although this assertion (which is precisely similar to the
assertion made by religious people of the various Churches
who consider that theirs is the only true religion) is quite
arbitrary and obviously unjust, yet it is calmly repeated by
all the people of our circle with full faith in its infallibility.

1 The contrast made is between the classes and the masses :
between those who do not and those who do earn their bread by
productive manual labour ; the middle classes being taken as an
offshoot of the upper classes. — Trans.

WHAT IS ART? 69

The art we have is the whole of art, the real, the only
art, and yet two-thirds of the human race (all the peoples
of Asia and Africa) live and die knowing nothing of this
sole and supreme art. And even in our Christian society
hardly one per cent, of the people make use of this art which
we speak of as being the whole of art ; the remaining ninety-
nine per cent, live and die, generation after generation,
crushed by toil and never tasting this art, which moreover
is of such a nature that, if they could get it, they would not
understand anything of it. We, according to the current
aesthetic theory, acknowledge art either as one of the highest
manifestations of the Idea, God, Beauty, or as the highest
spiritual enjoyment; furthermore, we hold that all people
have equal rights, if not to material, at any rate to spiritual
well-being ; and yet ninety-nine per cent, of our European
population live and die, generation after generation, crushed
by toil, much of which toil is necessary for the production of
our art which they never use, and we, nevertheless, calmly
assert that the art which we produce is the real, true, only
. art— all of art !

To the remark that if our art is the true art everyone
should have the benefit of it, the usual reply is that if not
everybody at present makes use of existing art, the fault
lies, not in the art, but in the false organisation of society ;
that one can imagine to oneself, in the future, a state of
things in which physical labour will be partly superseded
by machinery, partly lightened by its just distribution, and
that labour for the production of art will be taken in turns ;
that there is no need for some people always to sit below the
stage moving the decorations, winding up the machinery,
working at the piano or French horn, and setting type and
printing books, but that the people who do all this work
might be engaged only a few hours per day, and in their
leisure time might enjoy all the blessings of art.

That is what the defenders of our exclusive art say. But

70 WHAT TS ART?

I think they do not themselves believe it. They cannot
help knowing that fine art can arise only on the slavery of
the masses of the people, and can continue only as long as
that slavery lasts, and they cannot help knowing that only
under conditions of intense labour for the workers, can
specialists— writers, musicians, dancers, and actors — arrive
at that line degree of perfection to which they do attain,
or produce their refined works of art ; and only under the
same conditions can there be a line public to esteem such
productions. Free the slaves of capital, and it will be
impossible to produce such refined art.

But even were we to admit the inadmissible, and say that
means may be found by which art (that art which among us
is considered to be art) may be accessible to the whole
people, another consideration presents itself showing that
fashionable art cannot be the whole of art, viz. the fact
that it is completely unintelligible to the people. Formerly
men wrote poems in Latin, but now their artistic productions
are as unintelligible to the common folk as if they were
written in Sanskrit. The usual reply to this is, that if the
people do not now understand this art of ours, it only proves
that they are undeveloped, and that this has been so at each
fresh step forward made by art. First it was not under
stood, but afterwards people got accustomed to it.

" It will be the same with our present art ; it will be
understood when everybody is as well educated as are we —
the people of the upper classes — who produce this art," say
the defenders of our art. But this assertion is evidently
even more unjust than the former ; for we know that the
majority of the productions of the art of the upper classes,
such as various odes, poems, dramas, cantatas, pastorals,
pictures, etc., which delighted the people of the upper
classes when they were produced, never were afterwards
either understood or valued by the great masses of man
kind, but have remained, what they were at first, a mere

WHAT IS ART? 71

pastime for rich people of their time, for whom alone they
ever were of any importance. It is also often urged in
proof of the assertion that the people will some day under
stand our art, that some productions of so-called "classical"
poetry, music, or painting, which formerly did not please
the masses, do — now that they have been offered to them
from all sides — begin to please these same masses ; but this
only shows that the crowd, especially the half-spoilt town
crowd, can easily (its taste having been perverted) be
accustomed to any sort of art. Moreover, this art is not
produced by these masses, nor even chosen by them, but
is energetically thrust upon them in those public places in
which art is accessible to the people. For the great majority
of working people, our art, besides being inaccessible on
account of its costliness, is strange in its very nature,
transmitting as it does the feelings of people far removed
from those conditions of laborious life which are natural to
the great body of humanity. That which is enjoyment to
a man of the rich classes, is incomprehensible, as a pleasure,
to a working man, and evokes in him either no feeling at
all, or only a feeling quite contrary to that which it evokes
in an idle and satiated man. Such feelings as form the
chief subjects of present-day art — say, for instance, honour,1
patriotism and amorousness, evoke in a working man only
bewilderment and contempt, or indignation. So that even
if a possibility were given to the labouring classes, in their
free time, to see, to read, and to hear all that forms the
nower of contemporary art (as is done to some extent in
towns, by means of picture galleries, popular concerts, and
libraries), the working man (to the extent to which he is a
labourer, and has not begun to pass into the ranks of those
perverted by idleness) would be able to make nothing of our
fine art, and if he did understand it, that which he under-

1 Duelling is still customary among the higher circles in Russia, as
in other Continental countries.— Trans.

72 WHAT IS ART?

stood would not elevate his soul, but would certainly, in
most cases, pervert it. To thoughtful and sincere people

I there can therefore be no doubt that the art of our upper
classes never can be the art of the whole people. But if art
is an important matter, a spiritual blessing, essential for
\all men ("like religion," as the devotees of art are fond of
paying), then it should be accessible to everyone. And if, as
p our day, it is not accessible to all men, then one of two
things : either art is not the vital matter it is represented
to be, or that art which we call art is not the real thing.

The dilemma is inevitable, and therefore clever and
immoral people avoid it by denying one side of it, viz.
denying that the common people have a right to art. These
people simply and boldly speak out (what lies at the heart
of the matter), and say that the participators in and utilisers
of what in their esteem is highly beautiful art, i.e. art
furnishing the greatest enjoyment, can only be "schone
Geister," "the elect," as the romanticists called them, the
" Uebermenschen," as they are called by the followers of
Nietzsche ; the remaining vulgar herd, incapable of ex
periencing these pleasures, must serve the exalted pleasures
of this superior breed of people. The people who express
these views at least do not pretend and do not try to com
bine the incombinable, but frankly admit, what is the case,
that our art is an art of the upper classes only. So,
essentially, art has been, and is, understood by everyone
engaged on it in our society.

CHAPTER IX

THE unbelief of the upper classes of the European world
had this effect, that instead of an artistic activity aiming at
transmitting the highest feelings to which humanity has
attained, — those flowing from religious perception, — we have
an activity which aims at affording the greatest enjoyment
to a certain class of society. And of all the immense domain '
of art, that part has been fenced off, and is alone called art,
which affords enjoyment to the people of this particular
circle.

Apart from the moral effects on European society of such
a selection from the whole sphere of art of what did not de
serve such a valuation, and the acknowledgment of it as
important art, this perversion of art has weakened art itself,
and well-nigh destroyed it. The first great result was that
art was deprived of the infinite, varied, and profound religious
subject-matter proper to it. The second result was that
having only a small circle of people in view, it lost its beauty
of form and became affected and obscure ; and the third and
chief result was that it ceased to be either natural or even
sincere, and became thoroughly artificial and brain-spun.

The first result — the impoverishment of subject-matter —
followed because only that is a true work of art which v
transmits fresh feelings not before experienced by man.
As thought-product is only then real thought-product when
it transmits new conceptions and thoughts, and does not
merely repeat what was known before, so also an art-
product is only then a genuine art-product when it brings

74 WHAT IS ART?

u new feeling (however insignificant) into the current of
human life. This explains why children and youths are
so strongly impressed by those works of art which first
transmit to them feelings they had not before experienced.

The same powerful impression is made on people by feelings
which are quite new, and have never before been expressed
by man. And it is the source from which such feelings
iiow of which the art of the upper classes has deprived
itself by estimating feelings, not in conformity with religious
perception, but according to the degree of enjoyment they
afford. There is nothing older and more hackneyed than
enjoyment, and there is nothing fresher than the feelings
springing from the religious consciousness of each age. It
could not be otherwise : man's enjoyment has limits estab
lished by his nature, but the movement forward of
humanity, that which is voiced by religious perception, has
no limits. At every forward step taken by humanity —
and such steps are taken in consequence of the greater and
greater elucidation of religious perception — men experience
new and fresh feelings. And therefore only on the basis
of religious perception (which shows the highest level of
life-comprehension reached by the men of a certain period)
can fresh emotion, never before felt by man, arise. From
kthe religious perception of the ancient Greeks flowed the
really new, important, and endlessly varied feelings ex
pressed by Homer and the tragic writers. It was the same
among the Jews, who attained the religious conception of a
single God, — from that perception flowed all those new and
important emotions expressed by the prophets. It was the
same for the poets of the Middle Ages, who, if they believed
in a heavenly hierarchy, believed also in the Catholic
commune ; and it is the same for a man of to-day who has
grasped the religious conception of true Christianity — the
brotherhood of man.

The variety of fresh feelings flowing from religious

WHAT IS ART 'f 75

perception is endless, and they are all new, for religious
perception is nothing else than the first indication of that
"which is coming into existence, viz. the new relation of
man to the world around him. But the feelings flowing
from the desire for enjoyment are, on the contrary, not
only limited, but were long ago experienced and expressed.
And therefore the lack of belief of the upper classes of
Europe has left them with an art fed on the poorest
subject-matter.

The impoverishment of the subject-matter of upper-class
art was further increased by the fact that, ceasing to be
religious, it ceased also to be popular, and this again
diminished the range of feelings which it transmitted. For
the range of feelings experienced by the powerful and the
rich, who have no experience of labour for the support of
life, is far poorer, more limited, and more insignificant than
the range of feelings natural to working people.

People of our circle, sestheticians, usually think and say
just the contrary of this. I remember how Gontchareff, the
author, a very clever and educated man but a thorough towns
man and an sesthetician, said to me that after Tourgenieff's
Memoirs of a Sportsman there was nothing left to write about
in peasant life. It was all used up. The life of working
people seemed to him so simple that Tourgenieff's peasant
stories had used up all there was to describe. The life of
our wealthy people, with their love affairs and dissatisfac
tion with themselves, seemed to him full of inexhaustible
subject-matter. One hero kissed his lady on her palm,
another on her elbow, and a third somewhere else. One
man is discontented through idleness, and another because
people don't love him. And Gontchareff thought that in
this sphere there is no end of variety. And this opinion
—that the life of working people is poor in subject-matter,
but that our life, the life of the idle, is full of interest-
is shared by very many people in our society. The life of

76 WHAT IS ART?

a labouring man, with its endlessly varied forms of labour,
and the dangers connected with this labour on sea and
underground; his migrations, the intercourse with his em
ployers, overseers, and companions and with men of other
religions and other nationalities ; his struggles with nature
and with wild beasts, the associations with domestic animals,
the work in the forest, on the steppe, in the field, the garden,
the orchard ; his intercourse with wif e and children, not only
as with people near and dear to him, but as with co-workers
and helpers in labour, replacing him in time of need ; his
concern in all economic questions, not as matters of display
or discussion, but as problems of life for himself and his
family ; his pride in self-suppression and service to others,
his pleasures of refreshment; and with all these interests
permeated by a religious attitude towards these occurrences —
all this to us, who have not these interests and possess no
religious perception, seems monotonous in comparison with
those small enjoyments and insignificant cares of our life, —
a life, not of labour nor of production, but of consumption and
destruction of that which others have produced for us. We
think the feelings experienced by people of our day and
our class are very important and varied; but in reality
i, almost all the feelings of people of our class amount to
j|:!but three very insignificant and simple feelings — the feeling
jljbf pride, the feeling of sexual desire, and the feeling of
[[{ (weariness of life. These three feelings, with their out-
'growths, form almost the only subject-matter of the art of
the rich classes.

At first, at the very beginning of the separation of the
exclusive art of the upper classes from universal art, its
chief subject-matter was the feeling of pride. It was so at
the time of the Renaissance and after it, when the chief
subject of works of art was the laudation of the strong —
popes, kings, and dukes: odes and madrigals were written in
their honour, and they were extolled in cantatas and hymns ;

WHAT IS ART? 77

their portraits were painted, and their statues carved, in
various adulatory ways. Next, the element of sexual desire
began more and more to enter into art, and (with very few
exceptions, and in novels and dramas almost without
exception) it has now become an essential feature of every
art product of the rich classes.

The third feeling transmitted by the art of the rich — that
of discontent with life— appeared yet later in modern art.
This feeling, which, at the commencement of the present
century, was expressed only by exceptional men ; by Byron,
by Leopardi, and afterwards by Heine, has latterly become
fashionable and is expressed by most ordinary and empty
people. Most justly does the French critic Douinic
characterise the works of the new writers — " c'cst la
latitude de vivre, le mepris de Vepoque presente, le regret
(Tun autre temps aper$u a tracers ^illusion de J'art, le
f/otit du paradoxe, le besoin de se singulariser, une aspira
tion de rqffines vers la simplicite, V adoration enfantine du
merveilleux, la seduction maladivc de la reverie , Tebranlement
des nerfs, — surtout I'appel exaspere de la sensualite" (Les
Jeunes, Keii6 Doumic).1 And, as a matter of fact, of these
three feelings it is sensuality, the lowest (accessible not
only to all men but even to all animals) which forms the
chief subject-matter of works of art of recent times.

From Boccaccio to Marcel Prevost, all the novels, poems,
and verses invariably transmit the feeling of sexual love in
its different forms. Adultery is not only the favourite, but
almost the only theme of all the novels. A performance is
not a performance unless, under some pretence, women appear

1 It is the weariness of life, contempt lor the present epoch, regret
for another age seen through the illusion of art, a taste for paradox,
a desire to be singular, a sentimental aspiration after simplicity, an
infantine adoration of the marvellous, a sickly tendency towards
reverie, a shattered condition of nerves, and, above all, the ex-
aspen ted demand of sensuality.

78 WHAT IS ART?

with naked busts and limbs. Songs and romances — all are
expressions of lust, idealised in various degrees.

A majority of the pictures by French artists represent
female nakedness in various forms. In recent French
literature there is hardly a page or a poem in which
nakedness is not described, and in which, relevantly or
irrelevantly, their favourite thought and word nu is not
repeated a couple of times. There is a certain writer, Rene
de Gourmond, who gets printed, and is considered talented.
To get an idea of the new writers, I read his novel, Les
Chevaux de Diomede. It is a consecutive and detailed
account of the sexual connections some gentleman had with
various women. Every page contains lust-kindling descrip
tions. It is the same in Pierre Louys' book, ^Aphrodite,
which met with success ; it is the same in a book I lately
chanced upon — Huysmans' Certains, and, with but few
exceptions, it is the same in all the French novels. They
are all the productions of people suffering from erotic
mania. And these people are evidently convinced that as
their whole life, in consequence of their diseased condition,
is concentrated on amplifying various sexual abominations,
therefore the life of all the world is similarly concentrated.
And these people, suffering from erotic mania, are imitated
throughout the whole artistic world of Europe and America.

Thus in consequence of the lack of belief and the
exceptional manner of life of the wealthy classes, the art
of those classes became impoverished in its subject-matter,
and has sunk to the transmission of the feelings of pride,
discontent with life, and, above all, of sexual desire.

CHAPTER X

IN consequence of their unbelief the art of the upper classes
became poor in subject-matter. But besides that, becoming
continually more and more exclusive, it became at the
same time continually more and more involved, aifected, and
obscure.

When a universal artist (such as were some of the Grecian
artists or the Jewish prophets) composed his work, he naturally
strove to say what he had to say in such a manner that his
production should be intelligible to all men. But when an
artist composed for a small circle of people placed in excep
tional conditions, or even for a single individual and his
courtiers, — for popes, cardinals, kings, dukes, queens, or for a
king's mistress, — he naturally only aimed at influencing these
people, who were well known to him, and lived in excep
tional conditions familiar to him. And this was an easier
task, and the artist Avas involuntarily drawn to express
himself by allusions comprehensible only to the initiated,
and obscure to everyone else. In the first place, more could
be said in this way ; and secondly, there is (for the initiated)
even a certain charm in the cloudiness of such a manner of
expression. This method, which showed itself both in
euphemism and in mythological and historical allusions,
came more and more into use, until it has, apparently, at
last reached its utmost limits in the so-called art of the
Decadents. It has come, finally, to this : that not only is
haziness, mysteriousness, obscurity, and exclusiveness (shut
ting out the masses) elevated to the rank of a merit and a

79

So WHAT IS ART?

condition of poetic art, but even incorrectness, indefiniteness,
and lack of eloquence are held in esteem.

Theophile Gautier, in his preface to the celebrated Fleurs
flu Mai, says that Baudelaire, as far as possible, banished
from poetry eloquence, passion, and truth too strictly
copied ("V eloquence, la passion, et la vcrite calquee trop
exactement ").

And Baudelaire not only expressed this, but maintained
his thesis in his verses, and yet more strikingly in the prose
of his Petits Poemes en Prose, the meanings of which have
to be guessed like a rebus, and remain for the most part
undiscovered.

The poet Verlaino (who followed next after Baudelaire,
and was also esteemed great) even wrote an "Art poetique"
in which he advises this style of composition : —

De la musique arant toute chose,
Et pour cela -pre fire V Impair
Plus vague et plus soluble dans I' air,
Sans rien en hii qui pese ou qui pose.

11 faut aussi que tu n'ailles point
» Choisir tes mots sans quelque meprise :
Rien de plus clier que la chanson grise
Oil T Indecis au Precis se joint.

And again : —

De la musique encore et toujours !
Que ton vers soit la chose envolee
Qu'on sent qui fuit d'une dme en allee
Vers d'autres deux a d'autres amours.

WHAT IS ART? 81

Que ton vers soit la bonne aventure
Eparse au vent crispe du mati?i,
Qui va fleurant la menthe el le thym , , .
Et tout le reste est litterature.1

After these two comes Mallarme, considered the most
important of the young poets, and he plainly says that the
charm of poetry lies in our having to guess its meaning —
that in poetry there should always be a puzzle : —

Je pense qu'il faut qu'il n'y ait qu'allusion, says he.
La contemplation des oly'ets, I'image s'envolant des reveries
suscitees par eux, sont le chant : les Parnassiens, eux,
prennent la chose entierement et la montrent ; par la Us
manquent de mystere ; Us retirent aux esprits cette joie
ddlicieuse de croire qu'ils crcent. Nommcr un cibjet, c'est
supprimer les trois quarts de lajouissance dupoeme, qui
est fait e du bonheur de deviner pen a peu: le suggerer,

1 Music, music before all things
The eccentric still prefer,
Vague in air, and nothing weighty,
Soluble. Yet do not err,

Choosing words ; still do it lightly,
Do it too with some contempt ;
Dearest is the song that's tipsy,
Clearness, dimness not exempt.

Music always, now and ever
Be thy verse the thing that flies
From a soul that's gone, escaping,
Gone to other loves and skies.

Gone to other loves and regions,
Following fortunes that allure,
Mint and thyme and morning crispness
All the rest's mere literature.
6

82 WHAT IS ART?

voila le rdve. C'est le parfait usage de ce mystere qui
constitue le symbole : evoquer petit a petit un objet pour
montrer un etat d'dme, ou, inversement, choisir un objet et
en ddgager un etat d'dme, par une serie de dlchiffrements.

. . . Si un etre d'une intelligence moyenne, et d'une
preparation litteraire insuffisante, ouvre par hasard un livre
ainsi fait et pretend en jouir, il y a malentendu, il faut
remettre les choses a leur place. II doit y avoir toujours
tfnigme en poesie, et c'est le but de la literature, il n'y en
a pas d'autre, — d" evoquer les objets. — "Enquete sur I' evolution
litteraire," Jules Huret, pp. 60, 61.1

Thus is obscurity elevated into a dogma among the new
poets. As the French critic Doumic (who has not yet
accepted the dogma) quite correctly says : —

11 11 serait temps aussi d'enfinir avec cettefameuse ltheorie
de I'obscurite' que la nouvelle ecole a elevee, en effet, d la
hauteur d'un dogme." — Les Jeunes, par Ren6 Doumic.2

But it is not French writers only who think thus. The

1 I think there should be nothing but allusions. The contemplation
of objects, the flying image of reveries evoked by them, are the song.
The Parnassians state the thing completely, and show it, and thereby
lack mystery ; they deprive the mind of that delicious joy of imagining
that it creates. To name an object is to take three-quarters from the
enjoyment of the poem, which consists in the happiness of guessing little
by little : to suggest, that is the dream. It is the perfect use of this
mystery that constitutes the symbol : little by little, to evoke an
object in order to show a state of the soul ; or inversely, to choose an
object, and from it to disengage a state of the soul by a series of
decipherings.

... If a being of mediocre intelligence and insufficient literary
preparation chance to open a book made in this way and pretends to
enjoy it, there is a misunderstanding — things must be returned to
their places. There should always be an enigma in poetry, and the
aim of literature — it has no other — is to evoke objects.

2 It were time also to have done with this famous "theory of
obscurity," which the new school have practically raised to the height
of a dogma.

WHAT IS ART? 83

poets of all other countries think and act in the same way :
German, and Scandinavian, and Italian, and Russian, and
English. So also do the artists of the new period in all
branches of art : in painting, in sculpture, and in music.
Relying on Nietzsche and Wagner, the artists of the new
age conclude that it is unnecessary for them to be intelli
gible to the vulgar crowd ; it is enough for them to evoke
poetic emotion in "the finest nurtured," to borrow a phrase
from an English aesthetician.

In order that what I am saying may not seem to be
mere assertion, I will quote at least a few examples from
the French poets who have led this movement. The name
of these poets is legion. I have taken French writers,
because they, more decidedly than any others, indicate the
new direction of art, and are imitated by most European
writers.

Besides those whose names are already considered famous,
such as Baudelaire and Yerlaine, here are the names of a
few of them : Jean Moreas, Charles Morice, Henri de
Regnier, Charles Vignier, Adrien Remade, Rene Ghil,
Maurice Maeterlinck, G. Albert Aurier, Eemy de Gour-
mont, Saint-Pol-Roux-le-Magnifique, Georges Rodenbach,
le comte Robert de Montesquiou-Fezensac. These are
Symbolists and Decadents. Next we have the "Magi":
Josephin Peladan, Paul Adam, Jules Bois, M. Papus,
and others.

Besides these, there are yet one hundred and forty-one
others, whom Dournic mentions in the book referred to
above.

Here are some examples from the work of those of
them who are considered to be the best, beginning with
that most celebrated man, acknowledged to be a great
artist worthy of a monument — Baudelaire. This is a
poem from his celebrated Fleurs du Mai : —

84 WHAT IS ART?

No. XXIV.

Je t 'adore a Tcgal de la voute nocturne,

0 vase de tristesse, 6 grande taciturne,

Et t'aime d'autant plus, belle, que tu me fuis,

Et que tu me parais, ornement de mes nuits,

Plus ironiquement accumuler les lieues

Qui separent mes bras des immensites bleues.

Je m'avance a Vattaque, et je yrimpe aux assauts,
Comme apres un cadavre un choeur de vermisseaux,
Et je cheris, o b<'te implacable et cruelle,
Jusqu'a cette froideur par ou tu m'es plus belle ! l

And this is another by the same writer : —

No. XXX VI.

DUELLUM.

Deux guerriers ont couru Vun sur Vautre ; leurs armes
Out eclabousse I'air de lueurs et de sang.
<~!es jeux, ces cliquetis du fer sont les vacarmes
Uune jeunesse en proie a V amour vagissant.

Les glaives sont brises ! comme noire jeunesse,
Ma chere ! Mais les dents, les angles aceres,
Vengent bientot I'epee et la dague traitresse.
O fureur des cceurs murs par I* amour ulcer es /

Dans le ravin Jiante des chats-pards et des onces
Nos heros, s'etreig?iant mecliamment, ont roule,
Et leur peau fleurira Varidite des ronces.

1 For translation, see Appendix IV.

WHAT IS ART? 85

Ce go tiff re, c'est 1'enfer, de nos amis peuple!
Roulons-y sans remords, amazone inliumaine,
A fin d'eterniser Tar dew de uotre liaine ! l

To be exact, I should mention that the collection contains
verses less comprehensible than these, but not one poem
which is plain and can be understood without a certain
effort — an effort seldom rewarded, for the feelings which
the poet transmits are evil and very low ones. And these
feelings are always, and purposely, expressed by him with
eccentricity and lack of clearness. This premeditated obscu
rity is especially noticeable in his prose, where the author
could, if he liked, speak plainly.

Take, for instance, the first piece from his Petits
Poemes : —

UfiTRANGER.

Qui aimes-tu le mieux, liomme enigmatique, dis? ton per e,
ta mere, ta soeur, ou ton fr ere ?

Je n'ai ni pere, nirtic.re, ni soeur, nifrere.

Tes amis ?

Vous vous servez la d'une parole dont le sens iriest reste
jusyu' a ce jour inconnu.

Ta patrie ?

J 'ignore sous quelle latitude elle est situee.

La leaute ?

Je I'aiinerais volontiers, deesse et immortelle,

L'or ?

Je le hais comme vous lia'issez Dieu.

Et qu 'aimes-tu done, extraordinaire Stranger ?

J'aime lex nuayes . . . les nuages qui passent . . . Id
bas, . . . les merveilleux nuages ! l

The piece called La Soupe et les Nuages is probably
] For translation, see Appendix IV.

86 WHAT IS ART?

intended to express the unintelligibility of the poet even to
her whom he loves. This is the piece in question : —

Ma petite folle bien-aimee me donnait a diner, et par la
f entire ouverte de la salle a manger je contemplais les
mouvantes architectures que Dieu fait avec les vapeurs, les
merveilleuses constructions de ^impalpable. Et je me disais,
a tr avers ma contemplation : " Toutes ces fantasmagories
sont presque aussi belles que les yeux de ma belle bien-aimee,
la petite folle monstrueuse aux yeux verts."

Et tout a coup je recus un violent coup de poing dans le
dos, et fentendis une voix rauque et cliarmante, une voix
hysterique et comme enrouee par I' eau-de-vie, la voix de ma
chere petite bien-aimee, qui me disait, " Allez-vous bientot
manger votre soupe, s .... b .... de marchand de
nuages ?"1

However artificial these two pieces may be, it is still
possible, with some effort, to guess at what the author
meant them to express, but some of the pieces are absolutely
incomprehensible — at least to me. Le Galant Tireur is a
piece I was quite unable to understand.

LE GALANT TIREUR.

Comme la voiture traversait le bois, il la fit arreter dans
le voisinage d'un tir, disant qu'il lui serait agrcable de tirer
quelques balles pour tuer le Temps. Tuer ce monstre-ld,
n'est-cepas ^occupation la plus ordinaire et la plus legitime
de chacun ? — Et il offrit galamment la main a sa chere,
delicieuse et execrable femme, d cette mysterieuse femme a
laquelle il doit tant de plaisirs, tant de douleurs, et peut-etre
aussi une grande partie de son genie.

1 For translation, see Appendix IV.

WHAT IS ART? 87

Plusieurs balles frapperent loin du but propose, I'une
d'elles s'enfonpa meme dans le plafond ; et comme la char-
mante creature riait follement, se moquant de la maladresse
de son epoux, celui-ci se tourna brusquement vers elle, et lui
dit : " Observez cette poupee, la-bas, a droite, qui porte le nez
en fair et qui a la mine si Jiautaine. Eh bien ! cher ange,
je me figure que c'est vous." Et il ferma les yeux et il Idcha
la detente. La poupee fut nettement decapitee.

Alors s' indinant vers sa chere, sa delicieuse, son execrable
femme, son inevitable et impitoyable Muse, et lui baisant
respectueusement la main, il ajouta : " Ah ! mon cher ange,
combienje vous remercie de mon adresse ! " l

The productions of another celebrity, Verlaine, are not
less affected and unintelligible. This, for instance, is the
first poem in the section called Ariettes Oubliees.

" Le vent dans la plaine

Suspend son hat cine." — FAVART.

C'est I'extase langoureuse,
C'est la fatigue amoureuse,
C'est tous les frissons des bois
Parmi I'etreinte des brises,
C'est, vers les ramures grimes,
Le chcvur des petit es voix.

0 le frcle et frais murmure !
Cela gazouille et ttusurre,
Cela ressemble au cri doux
Que I'herbe agitee expire . . .
Tu dirais, sous Veau qui vire,
Le roulis sourd des cailloux.

1 For translation, see Appendix IV.

88 WHAT IS ART?

Cette dme qui se lamente
En cette plainte dormante
C'est la notre, riest-ce pas ?
La mienne, dis, et la tienne,
Dont s'exhale Vhumble antienne
Pur ce tiede soir, tout bas ? 1

What "chceur des petites voix'>ft and what " cri doiux
que rherbe agitee expire " 1 and what it all means, remains
altogether unintelligible to me.

And here is another Ariette : —

VIII.

Dans V interminable
Ennui de la plaine,
La neige incertaine
Luit comme du sable.

Le del est de cuivre,
Sans lueur aucune.
On croirait voir vivre
Et mourir la lune.

Comme des nuees
Flottent gris les clienes
Des forets procnaines
Parmi les buees.

Le del est de cuivre,
Sans lueur aucune.
On croirait voir vivre
Et mourir la lune.

For translation, see Appendix IV

WHAT IS ART? 89

Corneille poussive
Et vous, les loups maigres,
Par ces bises aigres
Quoi done vous arrive ?

Dans V interminable
Ennui de la plaine,
La neige incertaine
Luit comme du sable.1

How does the moon seem to live and die in a copper
heaven "? And how can snow shine like sand 1 The whole
thing is not merely unintelligible, but, under pretence of
conveying an impression, it passes off a string of incorrect
comparisons and words.

Besides these artificial and obscure poems, there are
others which are intelligible, but which make up for it by
being altogether bad, both in form and in subject. Such
arc all the poems under the heading La Sagesse. The chief
place in these verses is occupied by a very poor expression of
the most commonplace Roman Catholic and patriotic senti
ments. For instance, one meets with verses such as this : —

Je ne veux plus penser qu' a ma mere Mane,
Siege de la sagesse et source de pardons,
Mere de France aussi de qui nous attentions
Intibranlablement I'honneur de la patrie.'2

Before citing examples from other poets, T must pause to

1 For translation, see Appendix I V.

2 I do not wish to think any more, except about my mother

Mary,

Seat of wisdom and source of pardon,
Also Mother of France, from ivliom ice
Steadfastly expect the honour of our country.

90 WHAT IS ART?

note the amazing celebrity of these two versifiers, Baudelaire
and Verlaine, who are now accepted as being great poets.
How the French, who had Ch6nier, Musset, Lamartine, and,
above all, Hugo, — and among whom quite recently flourished
the so-called Parnassiens: Leconte de Lisle, Sully-Prud-
homme, etc., — could attribute such importance to these two
versifiers, who were far from skilful in form and most con
temptible and commonplace in subject-matter, is to me incom
prehensible. The conception-of-lif e of one of them, Baudelaire,
consisted in elevating gross egotism into a theory, and
replacing morality by a cloudy conception of beauty, and
especially artificial beauty. Baudelaire had a preference,
which he expressed, for a woman's face painted rather than
showing its natural colour, and for metal trees and a
theatrical imitation of water rather than real trees and
real water.

The life-conception of the other, Yerlaine, consisted in
weak profligacy, confession of his moral impotence, and,
as an antidote to that impotence, in the grossest Roman
Catholic idolatry. Both, moreover, were quite lacking in
naivete, sincerity, and simplicity, and both overflowed with
artificiality, forced originality, and self-assurance. So that
in their least bad productions one sees more of M. Baude
laire or M. Yerlaine than of what they were describing.
But these two indifferent versifiers form a school, and lead
hundreds of followers after them.

There is only one explanation of this fact : it is that the
art of the society in which these versifiers lived is not a
serious, important matter of life, but is a mere

And all amusements grow wearisome by repetition4.
in order to make wearisome amusement again tolerable, it
is necessary to find some means to freshen it up. When,
at cards, ombre grows stale, whist is introduced ; when whist
grows stale, ecarte is substituted ; when ecart6 grows stale,
some other novelty is invented, and so on. The substance

WHAT IS ART? 91

of the matter remains the same, only its form is changed.
And so it is with this kind of art. The subject-matter of the
art of the upper classes growing continually more and more
limited, it has come at last to this, that to the artists of these
exclusive classes it seems as if everything has already been
said, and that to find anything new to say is impossible.
And therefore, to freshen up this art, they look out for
fresh forms.

Baudelaire and Verlaine invent such a new form, furbish
it up, moreover, with hitherto unused pornographic details,
and — the critics and the public of the upper classes hail
them as great writers.

This is the only explanation of the success, not of
Baudelaire and Verlaine only, but of all the Decadents.

For instance, there are poems by Mallarme and Maeterlinck
which have no meaning, and yet for all that, or perhaps on
that very account, are printed by tens of thousands, not
only in various publications, but even in collections of the
best works of the younger poets.

Tliis, for example, is a sonnet by Mallarme : —

A la nue accablante tu
Basse de basalte et de laves
A meme les eclws esclaves
Par une trompe sans vertu.

Quel scpulcral naufrage (tu
Le soir, ecume, mais y laves)
Supreme une entre les tpaves
Abolit le mat devetu.

Ou cela gue furibond faute
De quelque perdition haute
Tout I'abime vain eploye

92 WHAT IS ART ?

Dans le si blanc clieveu qui trame

Avarement aura noye

Le flanc enfant d'une sirene.1

("Pan," 1895, No. 1.)

Tliis poem is not exceptional in its incomprehensibility.
I have read several poems by Mallarme, and they also had
no meaning whatever. I give a sample of his prose in
Appendix I. There is a whole volume of this prose, called
"Divagations." It is impossible to understand any of it.
And that is evidently what the author intended.

And here is a song by Maeterlinck, another celebrated
author of to-day: —

Quand il est sorfi,
(J'entendis la porte)
Quand il est sorti
Elle avait souri . . .

Mais quand il entra
(J'entendis la lampe]
Mais quand il entra
Une autre etait la . . .

Et fai vu la mort,
(J'entendis wn dme)
Et fai vu la mu,"t
Qui Vattend encore . . .

On est venu dire,
(Mon enfant fai peur)
On est venu dire
Qu'il allait partir . . .

1 This sonnet seems too unintelligible for translation. — Trans.

WHAT IS ART? 93

Ma lampe alluniee,
(Mori enfant fai peur)
Ma lampe allumee
Me suis approchee . . .

A la premiere porte,
(Mon enfant fai peur)
A la premiere porte,
La flamme a tremble . . .

A la seconde porte,
(Mon enfant fai peur}
A la seconde porte,
La flamme a parle . . .

A la troisi'eme porte,
(Mon enfant fai peur)
A la troisieme porte,
La lumiere est morte . . .

Et s'il revenait un jour
Que faut-il lui dire ?
Dites-lui qu'on Tattendit
Jusqu'a sjen mourir . . .

Et s'il demande ou vous etes
Que faut-il rcpondre ?
Donnez-lui mon anneau d'or
Sans rien lui repondre . . .

Et s'il m'interroge alors
Sur la dernikre heure ?
Dites lui que fai souri
De peur qu'il ne pleure . . .

94 WHAT IS ART?

Et s'il m'interroge encore
Sans me reconnaitre ?
Parlez-lui comme une soeur,
II souffre peut-etre . . .

Et s'il veut savoir pourquoi
La salle est deserte ?
Montrez lui la lampe t'teinte
Et la porte ouverte . . -1

("Pan," 1895, No. 2.)

Who went out ? Who came in ? Who is speaking ? Who
died?

I beg the reader to be at the pains of reading through
the samples I cite in Appendix II. of the celebrated and
esteemed young poets — Griffin, Verhaeren, More"as, and
Montesquieu. It is important to do so in order to form a
clear conception of the present position of art, and not to
suppose, as many do, that Decadentism is an accidental and
transitory phenomenon. To avoid the reproach of having
selected the worst verses, I have copied out of each volume
the poem which happened to stand on page 28.

All the other productions of these poets are equally un
intelligible, or can only be understood with great difficulty,
and then not fully. All the productions of those hundreds
of poets, of whom I have named a few, are the same in kind.
And among the Germans, Swedes, Norwegians, Italians, and
us Russians, similar verses are printed. And such produc
tions are printed and made up into book form, if not by the
million, then by the hundred thousand (some of these works
sell in tens of thousands). For type-setting, paging, printing,
and binding these books, millions and millions of working
days are spent — not less, I think, than went to build the
1 For translation, see Appendix IV.

WHAT IS ART? 95

great pyramid. And this is not all. The same is going on
in all the other arts : millions and millions of working
days are being spent on the production of equally
incomprehensible works in painting, in music, and in the
drama.

Painting not only does not lag behind poetry in this
matter, but rather outstrips it. Here is an extract from
the diary of an amateur of art, written when visiting the
Paris exhibitions in 1894 : —

" I was to-day at three exhibitions : the Symbolists', the
Impressionists', and the Neo-Impressionists'. I looked at
the pictures conscientiously and carefully, but again felt the
same stupefaction and ultimate indignation. The first
exhibition, that of Camille Pissarro, was comparatively the
most comprehensible, though the pictures were out of
drawing, had no subject, and the colourings were most
improbable. The drawing was so indefinite that you were
sometimes unable to make out which way an arm or a head
was turned. The subject was generally, ' effets ' — Effet de
brouillard, Effet du soir, Soleil coucliant. There were some
pictures with figures, but without subjects.

" In the colouring, bright blue and bright green predomi
nated. And each picture had its special colour, with which
the whole picture was, as it were, splashed. For instance in
' A Girl guarding Geese ' the special colour is vert de gris, and
dots of it were splashed about everywhere : on the face,
the hair, the hands, and the clothes. In the same gallery—
' Durand Ruel ' — were other pictures, by Puvis de Chavannes,
Manet, Monet, Renoir, Sisley — who are all Impressionists.
One of them, whose name I could not make out, — it was
something like Redon, — had painted a blue face in profile.
On the whole face there is only this blue tone, with white-
of-lead. Pissarro has a water-colour all done in dots. In the
foreground is a cow entirely painted with various-coloured
dots. The general colour cannot be distinguished, however

96 WHAT IS ART?

much one stands back from, or draws near to, the picture.
From there I went to see the Symbolists. I looked at them
long without asking anyone for an explanation, trying to
guess the meaning ; but it is beyond human comprehension.
One of the first things to catch my eye was a wooden liaut-
reUef, wretchedly executed, representing a woman (naked)
who with both hands is squeezing from her two breasts
streams of blood. The blood flows down, becoming lilac in
colour. Her hair first descends and then rises again and
turns into trees. The figure is all coloured yellow, and the
hair is brown.

"Next — a picture : a yellow sea, on which swims something
which is neither a ship nor a heart; on the horizon is a
profile with a halo and yellow hair, which changes into a sea,
in which it is lost. Some of the painters lay on their
colours so thickly that the effect is something between
painting and sculpture. A third exhibit was even less
comprehensible : a man's profile ; before him a flame and
black stripes — leeches, as I was afterwards told. At last I
asked a gentleman who was there what it meant, and he
explained to me that the liaut-relief was a symbol, and that
it represented 'La Terre.' The heart swimming in a yellow
sea was ' Illusion perdue,' and the gentleman with the leeches
was ' Le Mai.' There were also some Impressionist pictures :
elementary profiles, holding some sort of flowers in their
hands : in monotone, out of drawing, and either quite blurred
or else marked out with wide black outlines."

This was in 1894; the same tendency is now even more
strongly defined, and we have Bocklin, Stuck, Klinger,
Sasha Schneider, and others.

The same thing is taking place in the drama. The play-
writers give us an architect who, for some reason, has not
'fulfilled his former high intentions, and who consequently
climbs on to the roof of a house he has erected and tumbles
down head foremost; or an incomprehensible old woman

WHA T IS ART? 97

(who exterminates rats), and who, for an unintelligible
reason, takes a poetic child to the sea and there drowns
him; or some blind men, who, sitting on the seashore, for
some reason always repeat one and the same thing ; or a bell
of some kind, which flies into a lake and there rings.

And the same is happening in music — in that art which,
more than any other, one would have thought, should be
intelligible to everybody.

An acquaintance of yours, a musician of repute, sits down
to the piano and plays you what he says is a new com
position of his own, or of one of the new composers. You
hear the strange, loud sounds, and admire the gymnastic
exercises performed by his fingers ; and you see that the
performer wishes to impress upon you that the sounds he is
producing express various poetic strivings of the soul. You
see his intention, but no feeling whatever is transmitted to
you except weariness. The execution lasts long, or at least
it seems very long to you, because you do not receive any
clear impression, and involuntarily you remember the words
of Alphonse Karr, " Plus $a va vite, plus $a dure longtemps" l
And it occurs to you that perhaps it is all a mystification ;
perhaps the performer is trying you — just throwing his
hands and fingers wildly about the key-board in the hope
that you will fall into the trap and praise him, and then
he will laugh and confess that he only wanted to see if
he could hoax you. But when at last the piece does
finish, and the perspiring and agitated musician rises from
the piano evidently anticipating praise, you see that it was
all done in earnest.

The same thing takes place at all the concerts with pieces
by Liszt, Wagner, Berlioz, Brahms, and (newest of all)
Richard Strauss, and the numberless other composers of
the new school, who unceasingly produce opera after opera,
symphony after symphony, piece after piece.

1 The quicker it goes the longer it lasts.
7

98 WHAT IS ART?

The same is occurring in a domain in which it seemed hard
to be unintelligible — in the sphere of novels and short stories.

Read La - Bas by Huysmans, or some of Kipling's
short stories, or L'annonciateur by Villiers de 1'Isle Adam
in his Contes Gruels, etc., and you will find them not only
" abscons " (to use a word adopted by the neAv writers), but
absolutely unintelligible both in form and in substance.
Such, again, is the work by E. Morel, Terre Promise, now
appearing in the Revue Blanche, and such are most of
the new novels. The style is very high-flown, the feelings
seem to be most elevated, but you can't make out what is
happening, to whom it is happening, and where it is happen
ing. And such is the bulk of the young art of our time.

People who grew up in the first half of this century,
admiring Goethe, Schiller, Musset, Hugo, Dickens,
Beethoven, Chopin, Raphael, da Vinci, Michael Angelo,
Deiaroche, being unable to make head or tail of this new
art, simply attribute its productions to tasteless insanity and
wish to ignore them. But such an attitude towards this
new art is quite unjustifiable, because, in the first place,
that art is spreading more and more, and has already
conquered for itself a firm position in society, similar to
the one occupied by the Romanticists in the third decade
of this century ; and secondly and chiefly, because, if it is
permissible to judge in this way of the productions of the
latest form of art, called by us Decadent art, merely because
we do not understand it, then remember, there are an
enormous number of people, — all the labourers and many of
the non-labouring folk, — who, in just the same way, do not
comprehend those productions of art which we consider
admirable : the verses of our favourite artists — Goethe,
Schiller, and Hugo; the novels of Dickens, the music of
Beethoven and Chopin, the pictures of Raphael, Michael
Angelo, da Vinci, etc.

If I have a right to think that great masses of people do

WHAT IS ART? 99

not understand and do not like what I consider undoubtedly
good because they are not sufficiently developed, then I
have no right to deny that perhaps the reason why I can
not understand and cannot like the new productions of
art, is merely that I am still insufficiently developed to
understand them. If I have a right to say that I, and the
majority of people who are in sympathy, with me, do not
understand the productions of the new art simply because
there is nothing in it to understand and because it is bad
art, then, with just the same right, the still larger majority,,
the whole labouring mass, who do not understand what I
consider admirable art, can say that what I reckon as good
art is bad art, and there is nothing in it to understand.

I once saw the injustice of such condemnation of the new
art with especial clearness, when, in my presence, a certain
poet, who writes incomprehensible verses, ridiculed incom
prehensible music with gay self-assurance ; and, shortly after
wards, a certain musician, who composes incomprehensible
symphonies, laughed at incomprehensible poetry with equal
self-confidence. I have no right, and no authority, to
condemn the new art on the ground that I (a man educated
in the first half of the century) do not understand it ; I can
only say that it is incomprehensible to me. The only
advantage the art I acknowledge has over the Decadent
art, lies in the fact that the art I recognise is comprehensible'
to a somewhat larger number of people than the present-
day art.

The fact that I am accustomed to a certain exclusive art,
and can understand it, but am unable to understand
another still more exclusive art, does not give me a right to
conclude that my art is the real true art, and that the other
one, which I do not understand, is an unreal, a bad art. I
can only conclude that art, becoming ever more and more
exclusive, has become more and more incomprehensible to
an ever-increasing number of people, and that, in this its

ioo WHAT IS ART?

progress towards greater and greater incomprehensibility
(on one level of which I am standing, with the art familiar
to me), it has reached a point where it is understood by a
very small number of the elect, and the number of these
chosen people is ever becoming smaller and smaller.

As soon as ever the art of the upper classes separated
itself from universal art, a conviction arose that art may
be art and yet be incomprehensible to the masses. And
as soon as this position was admitted, it had inevitably
to be admitted also that art may be intelligible only
to the very smallest number of the elect, and, event
ually, to two, or to one, of our nearest friends, or to one
self alone. Which is practically what is being said by
modern artists: — "I create and understand myself, and if
anyone does not understand me, so much the worse for
him."

The assertion that art may be good art, and at the same
time incomprehensible to a great number of people, is ex
tremely unjust, and its consequences are ruinous to art itself ;
but at the same time it is so common and has so eaten into
our conceptions, that it is impossible sufficiently to elucidate
all the absurdity of it.

Nothing is more common than to hear it said of reputed
works of art, that they are very good but very difficult
to understand. We are quite used to such assertions, and
yet to say that a work of art is good, but incomprehen
sible to the majority of men, is the same as saying of some
kind of food that it is very good but that most people
-can't eat it. The majority of men may not like rotten
•cheese or putrefying grouse — dishes esteemed by people with
perverted tastes; but bread and fruit are only good when
they please the majority of men. And it is the same with
-art. Perverted art may not please the majority of men, but
(good art always pleases everyone.

It is said that the very best works of art are such that

WHAT IS ART? 101

they cannot be understood by the mass, but are accessible
only to the elect who are prepared to understand these great
works. But if the majority of men do not understand, the
knowledge necessary to enable them to understand should
be taught and explained to them. But it turns out that
there is no such knowledge, that the works cannot be
explained, and that those who say the majority do not
understand good works of art, still do not explain those
works, but only tell us that, in order to understand them,
one must read, and see, and hear these same works over
and over again. But this is not to explain, it is only to
habituate ! And people may habituate themselves to any
thing, even to the very worst things. As people may habitu
ate themselves to bad food, to spirits, tobacco/ and opium,
just in the same way they may habituate themselves _to bad
art — and that is exactly what is being done.

Moreover, it cannot be said that the majority of people
lack the taste to esteem the highest works of art. The
majority always have understood, and still understand, what
we also recognise as being the very best art : the epic of
Genesis, the Gospel parables, folk-legends, fairy-tales, and
folk-songs are understood by all. How can it be that the
majority has suddenly lost its capacity to understand what
is high in our art "?

Of a speech it may be said that it is admirable, but in
comprehensible to those who do not know the language in
which it is delivered. A speech delivered in Chinese may
be excellent, and may yet remain incomprehensible to me
if I do not know Chinese ; but what distinguishes a work of
art from all other mental activity is just the fact that its
language is understood by all, and that it infects all without
distinction. The tears and laughter of a Chinese infect me
just as the laughter and tears of a Russian ; and it is the
same with painting and music and poetry, when it is trans
lated into a language I understand. The songs of a Kirghiz

102 WHAT IS ART?

or of a Japanese touch me, though in a lesser degree than
they touch a Kirghiz or a Japanese. I am also touched by
Japanese painting, Indian architecture, and Arabian stories.
If I am but little touched by a Japanese song and a Chinese
novel, it is not that I do not understand these productions,
but that I know and am accustomed to higher works of
art. It is not because their art is above me. Grea.t works
./..,. of art are only great because they are accessible and compre
hensible to everyone. The story of Joseph, translated into
the Chinese language, touches a Chinese. The story of Sakya
Muni touches us. And there are, and must bo, buildings,
pictures, statues, and music of similar power. So that, if art
fails to move men, it cannot be said that this is due to the
spectators' or hearers' lack of understanding ; but the con
clusion to be drawn may, and should be, that such art is
either bad art, or is not art at all.

Art is differentiated from activity of the understanding,
which demands preparation and a certain sequence of know
ledge (so that one cannot learn trigonometry before knowing
geometry), by the fact that it acts on people independently of
their state of development and education, that the charm of
a picture, of sounds, or of forms, infects any man whatever
his plane of development.

The business of art lies just in this — to make that under
stood and felt which, in the form of an argument, might be
incomprehensible and inaccessible. Usually it seems to the
recipient of a truly artistic impression that he knew the thing
before but had been unable to express it.

And such has always been the nature of good, supreme art ;
the Iliad, the Odyssey, the stories of Isaac, Jacob, and Joseph,
the Hebrew prophets, the psalms, the Gospel parables, the
story of Sakya Muni, and the hymns of the Vedas : all transmit
very elevated feelings, and are nevertheless quite compre
hensible now to us, educated or uneducated, as they were com
prehensible to the men of those times, long ago, who were

WHAT IS ART? 105

even less educated than our labourers. People talk about
incomprehensibility ; but if art is the transmission of feelings
flowing from man's religious perception, how can a feeling
be incomprehensible which is founded on religion, i.e. on
man's relation to God ? Such art should be, and has actually,
always been, comprehensible to everybody, because every
man's relation to God is one and the same. And therefore
the churches and the images in them were always compre
hensible to everyone. The hindrance to understanding the
best and highest feelings (as is said in the gospel) does not at
all lie in deficiency of development or learning, but, on the
contrary, in false development and false learning. A good V
and lofty work of art may be incomprehensible, but not to \
simple, unperverted peasant labourers (all that is highest is I
understood by them) — it may be, and often is, unintelligible
to erudite, perverted people destitute of religion. And this
continually occurs in our society, in which the highest feelings
are simply not understood. For instance, I know people
who consider themselves most refined, and who say that
they do not understand the poetry of love to one's neighbour,
of self-sacrifice, or of chastity.

So that good, great, universal, religious art may be incom- ,
prehensible to a small circle of spoilt people, but certainly
not to any large number of plain men.

Art cannot be incomprehensible to the great masses
only because it is very good, — as artists of our day are fond
of telling us. Rather we are bound to conclude that this
art is unintelligible to the great masses only because it is
very bad art, or even is not art at all. So that the favourite
argument (naively accepted by the cultured crowd), that in
order to feel art one has first to understand it (which
really only means habituate oneself to it), is the truest
indication that what we are asked to understand by such
a method is either very bad, exclusive art, or is not art
at all.

102 WHAT IS ART?

People say that works of art do not please the people
becauste they are incapable of understanding them. But if
the aim of works of art is to infect people with the emotion
the artist has experienced, how can one talk about not
understanding 1

A man of the people reads a book, sees a picture, hears a
play or a symphony, and is touched by no feeling. He is
told that this is because he cannot understand. People
promise to let a man see a certain show ; he enters and sees
nothing. He is told that this is because his sight is not
prepared for this show. But the man well knows that he
sees quite well, and if he does not see what people promised
to show him, he only concludes (as is quite just) that those
who undertook to show him the spectacle have not fulfilled
their engagement. And it is perfectly just for a man who
does feel the influence of some works of art to come to this
conclusion concerning artists who do not, by their works,
evoke feeling in him. To say that the reason a man is not
touched by my art is because he is still too stupid, besides
being very self-conceited and also rude, is to reverse the
roles, and for the sick to send the hale to bed.

Voltaire said that " Tons les genres sont Ions, Tiors le
genre ennuyeux " ; 1 but with even more right one may say
of art that Tons les genres sons Ions, liors celui qu'on ne
comprend pas, or qui ne produit pas son e/et,2 for of
what value is an article which fails to do that for which
it was intended?

Mark this above all : if only it be admitted that art
may be art and yet be unintelligible to anyone of sound
mind, there is no reason why any circle of perverted people
should not compose works tickling their own perverted
feelings and comprehensible to no one but themselves, and

1 All styles are good except the wearisome style.

2 All styles are good except that which is not understood, or which
fails to produce its effect.

WHAT IS ART? 105

call it " art," as is actually being done by the so-called
Decadents.

The direction art has taken may be compared to
placing on a large circle other circles, smaller and smaller,/
until a cone is formed, the apex of which is no longer al
circle at all. That is what has happened to the art of our^
times.

/

CHAPTEE XI

BECOMING ever poorer and poorer in subject-matter and
more and more unintelligible in form, the art of the upper
classes, in its latest productions, has even lost all the
characteristics of art, and has been replaced by imitations
of art. Not only has upper-class art, in consequence of its
separation from universal art, become poor in subject-matter
and bad in form, i.e. ever more and more unintelligible, it
has, in course of time, ceased even to be art at all, and has
been replaced by counterfeits.

This has resulted from the following causes. Universal art
arises only when some one of the people, having experienced
a strong emotion, feels the necessity of transmitting it to
others. The art of the rich classes, on the other hand,
arises not from the artist's inner impulse, but chiefly because
people of the upper classes demand amusement and pay well
for it. They demand from art the transmission of feelings
that please them, and this demand artists try to meet. But
it is a very difficult task, for people of the wealthy classes,
spending their lives in idleness and luxury, desire to be
continually diverted by art; and art, even the lowest,
cannot be produced at will, but has to generate spontaneously
in the artist's inner self. And therefore, to satisfy the
demands of people of the upper classes, artists have had to
devise methods of producing imitations of art. And such
methods have been devised.

These methods are those of (1) borrowing, (2) imitating,
(3) striking (effects), and (4) interesting.

106

WHAT 2S ART? 107

The first method consists in borrowing whole subjects, or
merely separate features, from former works recognised by every
one as being poetical, and in so re-shaping them, with sundry
additions, that they should have an appearance of novelty.

Such works, evoking in people of a certain class memories
of artistic feelings formerly experienced, produce an impres
sion -similar to art, and, provided only that they conform to
other needful conditions, they pass for art among those who
seek for pleasure from art. Subjects borrowed from previous
works of art are usually called poetical subjects. Objects
and people thus borrowed are called poetical objects and
people. Thus, in our circle, all sorts of legends, sagas,
and ancient traditions are considered poetical subjects.
Among poetical people and objects we reckon maidens,
warriors, shepherds, hermits, angels, devils of all sorts, moon
light, thunder, mountains, the sea, precipices, flowers, long
hair, lions, lambs, doves, and nightingales. In general, all
those objects are considered poetical which have been most
frequently used by former artists in their productions.

Some forty years ago a stupid but highly cultured — ay ant
beaucoup d'acquis — lady (since deceased) asked me to listen
to a novel written by herself. It began with a heroine who,
in a poetic white dress, and with poetically flowing hair,
was reading poetry near some water in a poetic wood.
The scene was in Russia, but suddenly from behind the
bushes the hero appears, wearing a hat with a feather a la
Guillaume Tell (the book specially mentioned this) and
accompanied by two poetical white dogs. The authoress
deemed all this highly poetical, and it might have passed
rnuster if only it had not been necessary for the hero to
speak. But as soon as the gentleman in the hat a la
Guillaume Tell began to converse with the maiden in the
white dress, it became obvious that the authoress had
nothing to say, but had merely been moved by poetic
memories of other works, and imagined that by ringing the

io8 WHAT IS ART?

changes on those memories she could produce an artistic
impression. But an artistic impression, i.e. infection, is
only received when an author has, in the manner ...peculiar
to himself, experienced the feeling which he transmits, and
not when he passes on another man's feeling previously
transmitted to him. Such poetry from poetry cannot infect
people, it can only simulate a work of art, and even that
only to people of perverted aesthetic taste. The lady in
question being very stupid and devoid of talent, it was at
once apparent how the case stood ; but when such borrowing
is resorted to by people who are erudite and talented and have
cultivated the technique of their art, we get those borrow
ings from the Greek, the antique, the Christian or mytho
logical world which have become so numerous, and which,
particularly in our day, continue to increase and multiply,
and are accepted by the public as works of art, if only the
borrowings are well mounted by means of the technique of
the particular art to which they belong.

As a characteristic example of such counterfeits of art
in the realm of poetry, take Eostand's Princesse Lointaine,
in which there is not a spark of art, but which seems very
poetical to many people, and probably also to its author.

The second method of imparting a semblance of art is
that which I have called imitating. The essence of this
method consists in supplying details accompanying the thing
described or depicted. In literary art this method consists
in describing, in the minutest details, the external appear
ance, the faces, the clothes, the gestures, the tones, and the
habitations of the characters represented, with all the occur J
rences met with in life. For instance, in novels and stories,
when one of the characters speaks we are told in what voice
he spoke, and what he was doing at the time. And the
things said are not given so that they should have as much
sense as possible, but, as they are in life, disconnectedly,
and with interruptions and omissions. In dramatic art,

WHAT IS ART? 109

besides such imitation of real speech, this method consists
in having all the accessories and all the people just like
those in real life. In painting this method assimilates
painting to photography and destroys the difference between
them. And, strange to say, this method is used also in
music : music tries to imitate not only by its rhythm but
also by its very sounds, the sounds which in real life accom
pany the thing it wishes to represent.

The third method is by action, often purely physical, on
the outer senses. Work of this kind is said to be " striking,"
" effect-ful." In all arts these effects consist chiefly in con
trasts ; in bringing together the terrible and the tender, the
beautiful and the hideous, the loud and the soft, darkness
and light, the most ordinary and the most extraordinary. In
verbal art, besides effects of contrast, there are also effects
consisting in the description of things that have never before
been described. These are usually pornographic details
evoking sexual desire, or details of suffering and death
evoking feelings of horror, as, for instance, when describing
a murder, to give a detailed medical account of the lacerated
tissues, of the swellings, of the smell, quantity and appear
ance of the blood. It is the same in painting : besides all
kinds of other contrasts, one is coming into vogue which
consists in giving careful finish to one object and being
careless about all the rest. The chief and usual effects in
painting are effects of light and the depiction of the horrible.
In the drama, the most common effects, besides contrasts, are
tempests, thunder, moonlight, scenes at sea or by the sea
shore, changes of costume, exposure of the female body,
madness, murders, and death generally : the dying person
exhibiting in detail all the phases of agony. In music the
most usual effects are a crescendo, passing from the softest
and simplest sounds to the loudest and most complex crash
of the full orchestra ; a repetition of the same sounds
arpeggio in all the octaves and on various instruments;

no WHAT IS ART?

or that the harmony, tone, and rhythm be not at all those
naturally flowing from the course of the musical thought, but
such as strike one by their unexpectedness. Besides these, the
commonest effects in music are produced in a purely physical
manner by strength of sound, especially in an orchestra.

Such are some of the most usual effects in the various
arts, but there yet remains one common to them all, namely,
to convey by means of one art what it would be natural to
convey by another : for instance, to make music describe (as is
done by the programme music of Wagner and his followers),
or to make painting, the drama, or poetry, induce a frame of
mind (as is aimed at by all the Decadent art).

The fourth method is that of interesting (that is, absorbing
the mind) in connection with works of art. The interest
may lie in an intricate plot — a method till quite recently
much employed in English novels and French plays, but
now going out of fashion and being replaced by authenticity,
i.e. by detailed description of some historical period or some
branch of contemporary life. For example, in a novel,
interesting-ness may consist in a description of Egyptian or
Eoman life, the life of miners, or that of the clerks in a
large shop. The reader becomes interested and mistakes
this interest for an artistic impression. The interest may
also depend on the very method of expression; a kind of
interest that has now come much into use. Both verse and
prose, as well as pictures, plays, and music, are constructed
. so that they must be guessed like riddles, and this process
of guessing again affords pleasure and gives a semblance of
the feeling received from art.

It is very often said that a work of art is very good

f because it is poetic, or realistic, or striking, or interesting;

) whereas not only can neither the first, nor the second, nor
^ the third, nor the fourth of these attributes supply a

) standard of excellence in art, but they have not even

1 anything in common with art.

WHAT IS ART? ill

Poetic — means borrowed. All borrowing merely recalls to
the reader, spectator, or listener some dim recollection of
artistic impressions they have received from previous
works of art, and does not infect them with feeling which
the artist has himself experienced. A work founded on
something borrowed, like Goethe's Faust for instance, may
be very Avell executed and be full of mind and every beauty,,
but because it lacks the chief characteristic of a work of art — •
completeness, oneness, the inseparable unity of form and
contents expressing the feeling the artist has experienced —
it cannot produce a really artistic impression. In availing
himself of this method, the artist only transmits the feeling
received by him from a previous work of art ; therefore every
borrowing, whether it be of whole subjects, or of various
scenes, situations, or descriptions, is but a reflection of art,.
a simulation of it, but not art itself. And therefore, to say
that a certain production is good because it is poetic, — i.e.
resembles a work of art, — is like saying of a coin that it is
good because it resembles real money.

Equally little can imitation, realism, serve, as many people
think, as a measure of the quality of art. Imitation cannot
be such a measure, for the chief characteristic of art is the
infection of others with the feelings the artist has experienced,
and infection with a feeling is not only not identical with
description of the accessories of what is transmitted, but
is usually hindered by superfluous details. The attention
of the receiver of the artistic impression is diverted by all
these well-observed details, and they hinder the transmission
of feeling even when it exists.

To value a work of art by the degree of its realism, by the
accuracy of the details reproduced, is as strange as to judge
of the nutritive quality of food by its external appearance.
When we appraise a work according to its realism, we only
show that we are talking, not of a work of art, but of its-'
counterfeit.

112 WHAT IS ART?

Neither does the third method of imitating art — by
the use of what is striking or effectful — coincide with
real art any better than the two former methods, for
in effectfulness — the effects of novelty, of the unexpected,
of contrasts, of the horrible — there is no transmission of
feeling, but only an action on the nerves. If an artist were
to paint a bloody wound admirably, the sight of the wound
would strike me, but it would not be art. One prolonged
note on a powerful organ will produce a striking impression,
will often even cause tears, but there is no music in it,
because no feeling is transmitted. Yet such physiological
\ effects are constantly mistaken for art by people of our
; circle, and this not only in music, but also in poetry,
painting, and the drama. It is said that art has become
refined. On the contrary, thanks to the pursuit of elfectful-
ness, it has become very coarse. A new piece is brought
out and accepted all over Europe, such, for instance, as
Hannele, in which play the author wishes to transmit to the
spectators pity for a persecuted girl. To evoke this feeling in
the audience by means of art, the author should either make
one of the characters express this pity in such a way as to
infect everyone, or he should describe the girl's feelings cor
rectly. But he cannot, or will not, do this, and chooses
another wray, more complicated in stage management but
easier for the author. He makes the girl die on the stage ;
and, still further to increase the physiological effect on the
spectators, he extinguishes the lights in the theatre, leaving
the audience in the dark, and to the sound of dismal music
he shows how the girl is pursued and beaten by her drunken
father. The girl shrinks — screams — groans — and falls.
Angels appear and carry her away. And the audience,
•experiencing some excitement while this is going on, are
fully convinced that this is true aesthetic feeling. But
there is nothing aesthetic in such excitement, for there is no
infecting of man by man, but only a mingled feeling of

WHAT IS ART? 113

pity for another, and of self-congratulation that it is not I
who am suffering : it is like what we feel at the sight of
an execution, or what the Romans felt in their circuses.

The substitution of effectfulness for JBsthetic feeling is
particularly noticeable in musical art — that art which by
its nature has an immediate physiological action on the
nerves. Instead of transmitting by means of a melody the
feelings he has experienced, a composer of the new school
accumulates and complicates sounds, and by now strengthen
ing, now weakening them, he produces on the audience a
physiological effect of a kind that can be measured by an
apparatus invented for the purpose.1 And the public mistake
this physiological effect for the effect of art.

As to the fourth method — that of interesting — it also is
frequently confounded with art. One often hears it said,
not only of a poem, a novel, or a picture, but even of a
musical work, that it is interesting. AVhat does this mean 1
To speak of an interesting work of art means either that we
receive from a work of art information new to us, or that
the work is not fully intelligible, and that little by little,
and with effort, we arrive at its meaning, and experience a
certain pleasure in this process of guessing it. In neither
case has the interest anything in common with artistic im
pression. Art aims at infecting people with feeling experi
enced by tKe~artist. "But the mental effort necessary to
enable the spectator, listener, or reader to assimilate the new
information contained in the work, or to guess the puzzles
propounded, by distracting him, hinders the infection.
And therefore the interestingness of a work not only has
nothing to do with its excellence as a work of art, but
rather hinders than assists artistic impression.

We may, in a work of art, meet with what is poetic, and

1 An apparatus exists by means of which a very sensitive arrow,
in dependence on the tension of a muscle of the arm, will indicate
the physiological action of music on the nerves and muscles.
8

114 WHAT IS ART?

realistic, and striking, and interesting, but these things cannot
replace the essential of art — feeling experienced by the artist.
Latterly, in upper-class art, most of the objects given out as
being works of art are of the kind which only resemble art,
and are devoid of its essential quality — feeling experienced
by the artist. And, for the diversion of the rich, such objects
are continually being produced in enormous quantities by
the artisans of art.

Many conditions must be fulfilled to enable a man to
produce a real work of art. It is necessary that he should
stand on the level of the highest life-conception of his
time, that he should experience feeling and have the desire
and capacity to transmit it, and that he should, moreover,
have a talent for some one of the forms of art. It is very
seldom that all these conditions necessary to the production
of true art are combined. But in order — aided by the
customary methods of borrowing, imitating, introducing
effects, and interesting — unceasingly to produce counterfeits
of art which pass for art in our society and are well paid
for, it is only necessary to have a talent for some branch of
art ; and this is very often to be met with. By talent I
mean ability : in literary art, the ability to express one's
thoughts and impressions easily and to notice and remember
characteristic details ; in the depictive arts, to distinguish
and remember lines, forms, and colours ; in music, to
distinguish the intervals, and to remember and transmit
the sequence of sounds. And a man, in our times, if only
he possesses such a talent and selects some specialty, may,
after learning the methods of counterfeiting used in his
branch of art, — if he has patience and if his aesthetic feeling
(which would render such productions revolting to him) be
atrophied, — unceasingly, till the end of his life, turn out
works which will pass for art in our society.

To produce such counterfeits, definite rules or recipes
exist in each branch of art. So that the talented man,

WHAT IS ART? 115

having assimilated them, may produce such works a froid,
cold drawn, without any feeling.

In order to write poems a man of literary talent needs
only these qualifications : to acquire the knack, conformably
with the requirements of rhyme and rhythm, of using, in
stead of the one really suitable word, ten others meaning
approximately the same; to learn how to take any phrase
which, to be clear, has but one natural order of .words, and
despite all possible dislocations still to retain some sense
in it; and lastly, to be able, guided by the words required
for the rhymes, to devise some semblance of thoughts,
feelings, or descriptions to suit these words. Having
acquired these qualifications, he may unceasingly produce
poems — short or long, religious, amatory or patriotic, accord
ing to the demand.

If a man of literary talent wishes to write a story or
novel, he need only form his style — i.e. learn how to
describe all that he sees — and accustom himself to re
member or note down details. When he has accustomed
himself to this, he can, according to his inclination or the
demand, unceasingly produce novels or stories — historical,
naturalistic, social, erotic, psychological, or even religious,
for which latter kind a demand and fashion begins to show
itself. He can take subjects from books or from the events
of life, and can copy the characters of the people in his book
from his acquaintances.

And such novels and stories, if only they are decked out
with well observed and carefully rioted details, preferably
erotic ones, will be considered works of art, even though
they may not contain a spark of feeling experienced.

To produce art in dramatic form, a talented man, in
addition to all that is required for novels and stories, must
also learn to furnish his characters with as many smart
and witty sentences as possible, must know how to utilise
theatrical effects, and how to entwine the action of his

n6 WHAT IS ART?

characters so that there should not be any long conversa
tions, but as much bustle and movement on the stage as
possible. If the writer is able to do this, he may produce
dramatic works one after another without stopping, selecting
his subjects from the reports of the law courts, or from
the latest society topic, such as hypnotism, heredity, etc.,
or from deep antiquity, or even from the realms of fancy.

In the sphere of painting and sculpture it is still easier
for the talented man to produce imitations of art. He
need only learn to draw, paint, and model — especially naked
bodies. Thus equipped he can continue to paint pictures,
or model statues, one after another, choosing subjects
according to his bent — mythological, or religious, or fan
tastic, or symbolical ; or he may depict what is written about
in the papers — a coronation, a strike, the Turko-Grecian
war, famine scenes ; or, commonest of all, he may just copy
anything he thinks beautiful — from naked women to copper
basins.

For the production of musical art the talented man needs
still less of what constitutes the essence of art, i.e. feeling
wherewith to infect others; but, on the other hand, he
requires more physical, gymnastic labour than for any other
art, unless it be dancing. To produce works of musical art,
he must first learn to move his fingers on some instrument
as rapidly as those who have reached the highest perfection;
next he must know how in former times polyphonic music
was written, must study what are called counterpoint and
fugue ; and furthermore, he must learn orchestration, i.e. how
to utilise the effects of the instruments. But once he has
learned all this, the composer may unceasingly produce one
work after another; whether programme - music, opera, or
song (devising sounds more or less corresponding to the
words), or chamber music, i.e. he may take another man's
themes and work them up into definite forms by means of
counterpoint and fugue ; or, what is commonest of all, he

WHAT IS ART? 117

may compose fantastic music, i.e. he may take a conjunction
of sounds which happens to come to hand, and pile every
sort of complication and ornamentation on to this chance
combination.

Thus, in all realms of art, counterfeits of art are manu
factured to a ready-made, prearranged recipe, and these
counterfeits the public of our upper classes accept for real
art.

And this substitution of counterfeits for real works of
art was the third and most important consequence of the
separation of the art of the upper classes from universal art.

CHAPTEE XII

IN our society three conditions co-operate to cause the pro
duction of objects of counterfeit art. They are — (1) the
considerable remuneration of artists for their productions
and the professionalisation of artists which this has pro
duced, (2) art criticism, and (3) schools of art.

While art was as yet undivided, and only religious art
was valued and rewarded while indiscriminate art was
left unrewarded, there were no counterfeits of art,
or, if any existed, being exposed to the criticism of the
whole people, they quickly disappeared. But as soon as
that division occurred, and the upper classes acclaimed
every kind of art as good if only it afforded them pleasure,
and began to reward such art more highly than any other
social activity, immediately a large number of people devoted
themselves to this activity, and art assumed quite a different
character and became a profession.

And as soon as this occurred, the chief and most precious
quality of art — its sincerity — was at once greatly weakened
and eventually quite destroyed.

The professional artist lives by his art, and has continually
to invent subjects for his works, and does invent them.
And it is obvious how great a difference must exist between
works of art produced on the one hand by men such as
the Jewish prophets, the authors of the Psalms, Francis of
Assisi, the authors of the Iliad and Odyssey, of folk-stories,
legends, and folk-songs, many of whom not only received
no remuneration for their work, but did not even attach

118

WHAT IS ART? I. 19

their names to it; and, on the other hand, works produced
by court poets, dramatists and musicians receiving honours
and remuneration ; and later on by professional artists, who
lived by the trade, receiving remuneration from newspaper
editors, publishers, impresarios, and in general from those
agents who come between the artists and the town public —
the consumers of art.

Professionalism is the first condition of the diffusion of
false, counterfeit art.

The second condition is the growth, in recent times, of
artistic criticism, i.e. the valuation of art not by everybody,
and, above all, not by plain men, but by erudite, that is, by
perverted and at the same time self-confident individuals.

A friend of mine, speaking of the relation of critics to
artists, half-jokingly defined it thus : " Critics are the stupid
who discuss the wise." However partial, inexact, and rude
this definition may be, it is yet partly true, and is incom
parably juster than the definition which considers critics to
be men who can explain works of art.

" Critics explain ! " What do they explain ?

The artist, if a real artist, has by his work transmitted
to others the feeling he experienced. What is there, then,
to explain ?

If a work be good as art, then the feeling expressed by
the artist — be it moral or immoral — transmits itself to
other people. If transmitted to others, then they feel it,
and all interpretations are superfluous. If the work -does
not infect people, no explanation can make it contagious.
An artist's work cannot be interpreted. Had it been pos
sible to explain in words what he wished to convey, the
artist would have expressed himself in words. He expressed
it by his art, only because the feeling he experienced could
not be otherwise transmitted. The interpretation of works
of art by words only indicates that the interpreter is him
self incapable of feeling the infection of art. And this is

120 WHAT IS ART?

actually the case, for, however strange it may seem to say
so, critics have always been people less susceptible than
other men to the contagion of art. For the most part they
are able writers, educated and clever, but with their capacity
of being infected by art quite perverted or atrophied. And
therefore their writings have always largely contributed, and
still contribute, to the perversion of the taste of that public
which reads them and trusts them.

Artistic criticism did not exist — could not and cannot
exist — in societies where art is undivided, and where, con
sequently, it is appraised by the religious understanding-of-
life common to the whole people. Art criticism grew,
and could grow, only on the art of the upper classes, who
did not acknowledge the religious perception of their time.

Universal art has a definite and indubitable internal
criterion — religious perception ; upper-class art lacks this, and
therefore the appreciators of that art are obliged to cling to
some external criterion. And they find it in " the judgments
of the finest-nurtured," as an English sesthetician has
phrased it, that is, in the authority of the people who are
considered educated, nor in this alone, but also in a tradition
of such authorities. This tradition is extremely misleading,
both because the opinions of " the finest-nurtured " are often
mistaken, and also because judgments which were valid
once cease to be so with the lapse of time. But the critics,
having no basis for their judgments, never cease to repeat
their traditions. The classical tragedians were once con
sidered good, and therefore criticism considers them to be so
still. Dante was esteemed a great poet, Raphael a great
painter, Each a great musician — and the critics, lacking a
standard by which to separate good art from bad, not only
consider these artists great, but regard all their productions
as admirable and worthy of imitation. Nothing has contri
buted, and still contributes, so much to the perversion of art
as these authorities set up by criticism. A man produces a

WHAT IS ART? 121

work of art, like every true artist expressing in his own
peculiar manner a feeling he has experienced. Most people
are infected by the artist's feeling ; and his work becomes
known. Then criticism, discussing the artist, says that the
work is not bad, but all the same the artist is not a Dante,
nor a Shakespear, nor a Goethe, nor a Raphael, nor what
Beethoven was in his last period. And the young artist
sets to work to copy those who are held up for his imitation,
and he produces not only feeble works, but false works,
counterfeits of art.

Thus, for instance, our Pushkin writes his short poems,
Evyeniy Oner/in, TJie Gipsies, and his stories — works all
varying in quality, but all true art. But then, under the
influence of false criticism extolling Shakespear, he writes
Boris Godunoff, a cold, brain-spun work, and this production
is lauded by the critics, set up as a model, and imitations of
it appear : Minin by Ostrovsky, and Tsar Boris by Alexee
Tolstoy, and such imitations of imitations as crowd all litera
tures with insignificant productions. The chief harm done
by the critics is this, that themselves lacking the capacity to
be infected by art (and that is the characteristic of all
critics ; for did they not lack this they could not attempt
the impossible — the interpretation of works of art), they
pay most attention to, and eulogise, brain-spun, invented
works, and set these up as models worthy of imitation.
That is the reason they so confidently extol, in literature,
the Greek tragedians, Dante, Tasso, Milton, Shakespear,
Goethe (almost all he wrote), and, among recent writers,
Zola and Ibsen ; in music, Beethoven's last period, and
Wagner. To justify their praise of these brain-spun,
invented works, they devise entire theories (of which the
famous theory of beauty is one) ; and not only dull but
also talented people compose works in strict deference to
these theories ; and often even real artists, doing violence to
their genius, submit to them.

122 WHAT IS ART?

Every false work extolled by the critics serves as a
door through which the hypocrites of art at once
crowd in.

It is solely due to the critics, who in our times still praise
rude, savage, and, for us, often meaningless works of the
ancient Greeks : Sophocles, Euripides, ^Eschylus, and espe
cially Aristophanes; or, of modern writers, Dante, Tasso,
Milton, Shakespear; in painting, all of Raphael, all of
Michael Angelo, including his absurd "Last Judgment"; in
music, the whole of Bach, and the whole of Beethoven,
including his last period, — thanks only to them, have the
Ibsens, Maeterlincks, Verlaines, Mallarmes, Puvis de Cha-
vannes, Klingers, Bocklins, Stucks, Schneiders ; in music,
the Wagners, Liszts, Berliozes, Brahmses, and Richard
Strausses, etc., and all that immense mass of good-for-
nothing imitators of these imitators, become possible in
our day.

As a good illustration of the harmful influence of criticism,
take its relation to Beethoven. Among his innumerable
hasty productions written to order, there are, notwithstand
ing their artificiality of form, works of true art. But he
grows deaf, cannot hear, and begins to write invented,
unfinished works, which are consequently often meaningless
and musically unintelligible. I know that musicians can
imagine sounds vividly enough, and can almost hear what
they read, but imaginary sounds can never replace real ones,
and every composer must hear his production in order to
perfect it. Beethoven, however, could not hear, could not
perfect his work, and consequently published productions
which are. artistic ravings. But criticism, having once
acknowledged him to be a great composer, seizes on just
these abnormal works with special gusto, and searches for
extraordinary beauties in them. And, to justify its lauda
tions (perverting the very meaning of musical art), it
attributed to music the property of describing what it cannot

WHAT IS ART? 123

describe. And imitators appear — an innumerable host of
imitators of these abnormal attempts at artistic productions
which Beethoven wrote when he was deaf.

Then Wagner appears, who at first in critical articles
praises just Beethoven's last period, and connects this music
with Schopenhauer's mystical theory that music is the ex
pression of Will — not of separate manifestations of will
objectivised on various planes, but of its very essence —
which is in itself as absurd as this music of Beethoven.
And afterwards he composes music of his own on this
theory, in conjunction with another still more erroneous
system of the union of all the arts. After Wagner yet
new imitators appear, diverging yet further from art :
Brahms, Richard Strauss, and others.

Such are the results of criticism. But the third condition
of the perversion of art, namely, art schools, is almost more
harmful still.

. As soon as art became, not art for the whole people but
for a rich class, it became a profession ; as soon as it became
a profession, methods were devised to teach it ; people
who chose this profession of art began to learn these
methods, and thus professional schools sprang up : classes
of rhetoric or literature in the public schools, academics
for painting, conservatoires for music, schools for dramatic
art.

In these schools art is taught ! But art is the transmission
to others of a special feeling experienced by the artist.
How can this be taught in schools 1

No school can evoke feeling in a man, and still less can
it teach him IIOAV to manifest it in the one particular manner
natural to him alone. But the essence of art lies in these
things.

The one thing these schools can teach is how to transmit
feelings experienced by other artists in the way those other
artists transmitted them. And this is just what the

124 WHAT IS ART?

professional schools do teach ; and such instruction not only
does not assist the spread of true art, but, on the contrary,
by diffusing counterfeits of art, does more than anything
else to deprive people of the capacity to understand
true art.

In literary art people are taught how, without having
anything they wish to say, to write a many-paged com
position on a theme about which .they have never thought,
and, moreover, to write it so that it should resemble the
work of an author admitted to be celebrated. This is taught
in schools.

In painting the chief training consists in learning to draw
and paint from copies and models, the naked body chiefly
(the very thing that is never seen, and which a man
occupied with real art hardly ever has to depict), and to
draw and paint as former masters drew and painted. The
composition of pictures is taught by giving out themes similar
to those which have been treated by former acknowledged
celebrities.

So also in dramatic schools, the pupils are taught to
recite monologues just as tragedians, considered celebrated,
declaimed them.

It is the same in music. The whole theory of music is
nothing but a disconnected repetition of those methods
which the acknowledged: masters of composition made
use of.

I have elsewhere quoted the profound remark of the
Russian artist Bruloff on art, but I cannot here refrain from
repeating it, because nothing better illustrates what can
and what can not be taught in the schools. Once when
correcting a pupil's study, Bruloff just touched it in a few
places, and the poor dead study immediately became ani
mated. " Why, you only touched it a wee bit, and it is quite
another thing ! " said one of the pupils. " Art begins where
the wee bit begins," replied Bruloff, indicating by these

WHAT IS ART? .23J2<

words just what is most characteristic of art. The remark
is true of all the arts, but its justice is particularly noticeable
in the performance of music. That musical execution should
be artistic, should be art, i.e. should infect, three chief con
ditions must be observed, — there are many others needed for
musical perfection ; the transition from one sound to another
must be interrupted or continuous ; the sound must increase
or dimmish steadily ; it must be blended with one and not
with another sound ; the sound must have this or that
timbre, and much besides, — but take the three chief con
ditions : the pitch, the time, and the strength of the sound.
Musical execution is only then art, only then infects, when
the sound is neither higher nor lower than it should be,
that is, when exactly the infinitely small centre of the
required note is taken ; when that note is continued exactly
as long as is needed ; and when the strength of the sound
is neither more nor less than is required. The slightest
deviation of pitch in either direction, the slightest increase
or decrease in time, or the slightest strengthening or
weakening of the sound beyond what is needed, destroys
the perfection and, consequently, the infectiousness of
the work. So that the feeling of infection by the art of
music, which seems so simple and so easily obtained, is
a thing we receive only when the performer finds those
infinitely minute degrees which are necessary to perfection
in music. It is the same in all arts : a wee bit lighter,
a wee bit darker, a wee bit higher, lower, to the right or
the left — in painting ; a wee bit weaker or stronger in
intonation, or a wee bit sooner or later — in dramatic art ;
a wee bit omitted, over-emphasised, or exaggerated — in
poetry, and there is no contagion. Infection is only
obtained when an artist finds those infinitely minute degrees
of which a work of art consists, and only to the extent to
which he finds them. And it is quite impossible to teach
people by external means to find these minute degrees : they

ip WHAT IS ART?

t-

can only be found when a man yields to his feeling. No
instruction can make a dancer catch just the tact of the
music, or a singer or a fiddler take exactly the infinitely
minute centre of his note, or a sketcher draw of all possible
lines the only right one, or a poet find the only meet arrange
ment of the only suitable words. All this is found only
by feeling. And therefore schools may teach what is neces
sary in order to produce something resembling art, but not
art itself.

The teaching of the schools stops there where the wee
bit begins — consequently where art begins.

Accustoming people to something resembling art, dis
accustoms them to the comprehension of real art. And that
is how it comes about that none are more dull to art than
those who have passed through the professional schools and
been most successful in them. Professional schools produce
an hypocrisy of art precisely ,akin to that hypocrisy of
religion which is produced by theological colleges for
training priests, pastors, and religious teachers generally.
As it is impossible in a school to train a man so as to
make a religious teacher of him, so it is impossible to teach
a man how to become an artist.

Art schools are thus doubly destructive of art : first, in
that they destroy the capacity to produce real art in those
who have the misfortune to enter them and go through a
7 or 8 years' course; secondly, in that they generate
enormous quantities of that counterfeit art which perverts
the taste of the masses and overflows our world. In
order that born artists may know the methods of the
various arts elaborated by former artists, there should
exist in all elementary schools such classes for drawing
and music (singing) that, after passing through them,
every talented scholar may, by using existing models
accessible to all, be able to perfect himself in his art
independently.

WHAT IS ART? 127

These three conditions — the professionalisation of artists,
art criticism, and art schools — have had this effect : that ;
most people in our times are quite unable even to under
stand what art is, and accept as art the grossest counterfeits
of it,

CHAPTER XIII

To what an extent people of our circle and time have lost the
capacity to receive real art, and have become accustomed
to accept as art things that have nothing in common with it,
is best seen from the works of Richard Wagner, which have
latterly come to be more and more esteemed, not only by
the Germans but also by the French and the English, as the
very highest art, revealing new horizons to us.

The peculiarity of Wagner's music, as is known, consists
in this, that he considered that music should serve poetry,
expressing all the shades of a poetical work.

The union of the drama with music, devised in the
fifteenth century in Italy for the revival of what they
imagined to have been the ancient Greek drama with
music, is an artificial form which had, and has, success
only among the upper classes, and that only when gifted
composers, such as Mozart, Weber, Rossini, and others,
drawing inspiration from a dramatic subject, yielded freely
to the inspiration and subordinated the text to the music,
so that in their operas the important thing to the audience
was merely the music on a certain text, and not the text
at all, which latter, even when it was utterly absurd, as,
f,or instance, in the Magic Flute, still did not prevent the
music from producing an artistic impression.

Wagner wishes to correct the opera by letting music
submit to the demands of poetry and unite with it. But
each art has its own definite realm, which is not identical
with the realm of other arts, but merely comes in

128

WHAT IS ART? 129

contact with them ; and therefore, if the manifestation of,
I will not say several, but even of two arts — the dramatic
and the musical — be united in one complete production,
then the demands of the one art will make it impossible
to fulfil the demands of the other, as has always occurred in
the ordinary operas, where the dramatic art has submitted to,
or rather yielded place to, the musical. Wagner wishes that
musical art should submit to dramatic art, and that both
should appear in full strength. But this is impossible, for
every work of art, if it be a true one, is an expression of
intimate feelings of the artist, which are quite exceptional, and
not like anything else. Such is a musical production, and such
is a dramatic work, if they be true art. And therefore, in
order that a production in the one branch of art should
coincide with a production in the other branch, it is necessary
that the impossible should happen : that two works from
different realms of art should be absolutely exceptional,
unlike anything that existed before, and yet should coincide,
and be exactly alike.

And this cannot be, just as there cannot be two men, or
even two leaves on a tree, exactly alike. Still less can two
works from different realms of art, the musical and the
literary, be absolutely alike. If they coincide, then either
one is a work of art and the other a counterfeit, or both are
counterfeits. Two live leaves cannot be exactly alike, but
two artificial leaves may be. And so it is with works of
art. They can only coincide completely when neither the -
one nor the other is art, but only cunningly devised
semblances of it.

If poetry and music may be joined, as occurs in hymns,
songs, and romances — (though even in these the music does
not follow the changes of each verse of the text, as Wagner
wants to, but the song and the music merely produce a
coincident effect on the mind) — this occurs only because
lyrical poetry and music have, to some extent, one and the
9

130 WHAT IS ART?

same aim : to produce a mental condition, and the condi
tions produced by lyrical poetry and by music can, more or
less, coincide. But even in these conjunctions the centre of
gravity always lies in one of the two productions, so that
it is one of them that produces the artistic impression while
the other remains unregarded. And still less is it possible
for such union to exist between epic or dramatic poetry and
music.

Moreover, one of the chief conditions of artistic creation
is the complete freedom of the artist from every kind of
preconceived demand. And the necessity of adjusting his
musical work to a work from another realm of art is a pre
conceived demand of such a kind as to destroy all possibility
of creative power ; and therefore works of this kind, adjusted
to one another, are, and must be, as has always happened,
not works of art but only imitations of art, like the music
of a melodrama, signatures to pictures, illustrations, and
librettos to operas.

And such are Wagner's productions. And a confirma
tion of this is to be seen in the fact that Wagner's new
music lacks the chief characteristic of every true work
of art, namely, such entirety and completeness that the
smallest alteration in its form would disturb the meaning
of the whole work. In a true work of art — poem, drama,
picture, song, or symphony — it is impossible to extract one line,
one scene, one figure, or one bar from its place and put it in
another, without infringing the significance of the whole
work; just as it is impossible, without infringing the life

an organic being, to extract an organ from one place and
insert it in another. But in the music of Wagner's last
period, with the exception of certain parts of little importance
which have an independent musical meaning, it is possible
to make all kinds of transpositions, putting what was in
front behind, and vice versa, without altering the musical
sense. And the reason why these transpositions do not

WHAT IS ART? 131

alter the sense of Wagner's music is because the sense lies
in the words and not in the music,

The musical score of Wagner's later operas is like what
the result would be should one of those versifiers — of whom
there are now many, with tongues so broken that they can
write verses on any theme to any rhymes in any rhythm,
which sound as if they had a meaning — conceive the idea
of illustrating by his verses some symphony or sonata of
Beethoven, or some ballade of Chopin, in the following
manner. To the first bars, of one character, he writes
verses corresponding in his opinion to those first bars.
Next come some bars of a different character, and he also
writes verses corresponding in his opinion to them, but with
no internal connection with the first verses, and, moreover,
without rhymes and without rhythm. Such a production,
without the music, would be exactly parallel in poetry to
what Wagner's operas are in music, if heard without the
words.

But Wagner is not only a musician, he is also a poet,
or both together ; and therefore, to judge of Wagner, one
must know his poetry also — that same poetry which the
music has to subserve. The chief poetical production of
Wagner is The Nibduncjs Ring. This work has attained
such enormous importance in our time, and has such influ
ence on all that now professes to be art, that it is neces
sary for everyone to-day to have some idea of it. I have
carefully read through the four booklets which contain this
work, and have drawn up a brief summary of it, which I
give in Appendix III. I would strongly advise the reader
(if he has not perused the poem itself, which would be
the best thing to do) at least to read my account of it,
so as to have an idea of this extraordinary work. It is a
model work of counterfeit art, so gross as to be even
ridiculous.

But we are told that it is impossible to judge of Wagner's

132 WHAT IS ART?

works without seeing them on the stage. The Second Day
of this drama, which, as I was told, is the best part of the
whole work, was given in Moscow last winter, and I went
to see the performance.

When I arrived the enormous theatre was already filled
from top to bottom. There were Grand-Dukes, and the
flower of the aristocracy, of the merchant class, of the
learned, and of the middle-class official public. Most of
them held the libretto, fathoming its meaning. Musicians
— some of them elderly, grey-haired men — followed the
music, score in hand. Evidently the performance of this
work was an event of importance.

I was rather late, but I was told that the short prelude,
with which the act begins, was of little importance, and
that it did not matter having missed it. When I arrived,
an actor sat on the stage amid decorations intended to
represent a cave, and before something which was meant to
represent a smith's forge. He was dressed in trico-tightsr
with a cloak of skins, wore a wig and an artificial beard, and
with white, weak, genteel hands (his easy movements, and
especially the shape of his stomach and his lack of muscle
revealed the actor) beat an impossible sword with an
unnatural hammer in a way in which no one ever uses
a hammer ; and at the same time, opening his mouth
in a strange way, he sang something incomprehensible.
The music of various instruments accompanied the strange
sounds which he emitted. From the libretto one was
able to gather that the actor had to represent a powerful
gnome, who lived in the cave, and who was forging a sword
for Siegfried, whom he had reared. One could tell
he was a gnome by the fact that the actor walked
all the time bending the knees of his trico-covered
legs. This gnome, still opening his mouth in the same
strange way, long continued to sing or shout. The music
meanwhile runs over something strange, like beginnings

WHAT IS ART? 133

which are not continued and do not get finished. From
the libretto one could learn that the gnome is telling
himself about a ring which a giant had obtained, and
which the gnome wishes to procure through Siegfried's
aid, while Siegfried wants a good sword, on the forging
of which the gnome is occupied. After this conversation
or singing to himself has gone on rather a long time,
other sounds are heard in the orchestra, also like something
beginning and not finishing, and another actor appears,
with a horn slung over his shoulder, and accompanied by
a man running on all fours dressed up as a bear, whom
he sets at the smith-gnome. The latter runs away with
out unbending the knees of his trico-covered legs. This
actor with the horn represented the hero, Siegfried. The
sounds which were emitted in the orchestra on the entrance
of this actor were intended to represent Siegfried's character
and are called Siegfried's leit-motiv. And these sounds are
repeated each time Siegfried appears. There is one fixed
combination of sounds, or leit-motiv, for each character,
and this leit-motiv is repeated every time the person whom
it represents appears ; and when anyone is mentioned the
motiv is heard which relates to that person. Moreover,
each article also lias its own leit-motiv or chord. There
is a motiv of the ring, a motiv of the helmet, a motiv of
the apple, a motiv of fire, spear, sword, water, etc. ; and as
soon as the ring, helmet, or apple is mentioned, the motiv
or chord of the ring, helmet, or apple is heard. The actor
with the horn opens his mouth as unnaturally as the gnome,
and long continues in a chanting voice to shout some words,
and in a similar chant Mime (that is the gnome's name)
answers something or other to him. The meaning of this
conversation can only be discovered from the libretto; and it is
that Siegfried was brought up by the gnome, and therefore,
for some reason, hates him and always wishes to kill him.
The gnome has forged a sword for Siegfried, but Siegfried

134 WHAT IS ART?

is dissatisfied with it. From a ten-page conversation (by the
libretto), lasting half an hour and conducted with the same
strange openings of the mouth and chantings, it appears
that Siegfried's mother gave birth to him in the wood, and
that concerning his father all that is known is that he had
a sword which was broken, the pieces of which are in Mime's
possession, and that Siegfried does not know fear and wishes
to go out of the wood. Mime, however, does not want to
let him go. During the conversation the music never omits,
at the mention of father, sword, etc., to sound the motive of
these people and things. After these conversations fresh
sounds are heard — those of the god Wotan — and a wanderer
appears. This wanderer is the god Wotan. Also dressed
up in a wig, and also in tights, this god Wotan, standing
in a stupid pose with a spear, thinks proper to recount
what Mime must have known before, but what it is
necessary to tell the audience. He does not tell it simply,
but in the form of riddles which he orders himself to guess,
staking his head (one does not know why) that he will guess
right. Moreover, whenever the wanderer strikes his spear
on the ground, fire comes out of the ground, and in the
orchestra the sounds of spear and of fire are heard. The
orchestra accompanies the conversation, and the motive of the
people and things spoken of are always artfully intermingled.
Besides this the music expresses feelings in the most naive
manner : the terrible by sounds in the bass, the frivolous by
rapid touches in the treble, etc.

The riddles have no meaning except to tell the audience
what the nibelungs are, what the giants are, what the
gods are, and what has happened before. This conver
sation also is chanted with strangely opened mouths and
continues for eight libretto pages, and correspondingly
long on the stage. After this the wanderer departs, and
Siegfried returns and talks with Mime for thirteen pages more.
There is not a single melody the whole of this time, but

WHAT IS ART? 135

merely intertwinings of the leit-moUve of the people and
things mentioned. The conversation tells that Mime wishes
to teach Siegfried fear, and that Siegfried does not know
what fear is. Having finished this conversation, Siegfried
seizes one of the pieces of what is meant to represent the
broken sword, saws it up, puts it on what is meant to
represent the forge, melts it, and then forges it and sings :
Heiho! heiho! heiho! Ho! ho! Aha! oho! aha! Heiaho!
heiaho ! heiaho ! Ho ! ho ! Hahei ! hoho ! hahei ! and Act
I. finishes.

As far as the question I had come to the theatre to
decide was concerned, my mind was fully made up, as
surely as on the question of the merits of my lady
acquaintance's novel when she read me the scene between
the loose-haired maiden in the white dress and the hero
with two white dogs and a hat with $ feather a la Guil-
laume Tell.

From an author who could compose such spurious scenes,
outraging all aesthetic feeling, as those which I had wit
nessed, there was nothing to be hoped; it may safely be
decided that all that such an author can write will be bad,
because he evidently does not know what a true work of
art is. I wished to leave, but the friends I was with
asked me to remain, declaring that one could not form
an opinion by that one act, and that the second would be
better. So I stopped for the second act.

Act II., night. Afterwards dawn. In general the whole
piece is crammed with lights, clouds, moonlight, darkness,
magic fires, thunder, etc.

The scene represents a wood, and in the wood there is a
cave. At the entrance of the cave sits a third actor in
tights, representing another gnome. It dawns. Enter the
god Wotan, again with a spear, and again in the guise of a
wanderer. Again his sounds, together with fresh sounds ot
the deepest bass that can be produced. These latter indicate

136 WHAT IS ART?

that the dragon is speaking. Wotan awakens the dragon.
The same bass sounds are repeated, growing yet deeper and
deeper. First the dragon says, "I want to sleep," but after
wards he crawls out of the cave. The dragon is represented
by two men ; it is dressed in a green, scaly skin, waves a tail
at one end, while at the other it opens a kind of crocodile's
jaw that is fastened on, and from which flames appear. The
dragon (who is meant to be dreadful, and may appear so
to five-year-old children) speaks some words in a terribly
bass voice. This is all so stupid, so like what is done in a
booth at a fair, that it is surprising that people over seven
years of age can witness it seriously ; yet thousands of
quasi-cultured people sit and attentively hear and see it, and
are delighted.

Siegfried, with his horn, reappears, as does Mime also. In
the orchestra the sounds denoting them are emitted, and
they talk about whether Siegfried does or does not know
what fear is. Mime goes away, and a scene commences which
is intended to be most poetical. Siegfried, in his tights, lies
down in a would-be beautiful pose, and alternately keeps
silent and talks to himself. He ponders, listens to the song
of birds, and wishes to imitate them. For this purpose
he cuts a reed with his sword and makes a pipe. The dawn
grows brighter and brighter ; the birds sing. Siegfried tries
to imitate the birds. In the orchestra is heard the imitation
of birds, alternating with sounds corresponding to the words
he speaks. But Siegfried does not succeed with his pipe-
playing, so he plays on his horn instead. This scene is
unendurable. Of music, i.e. of art serving as a means to
transmit a state of mind experienced by the author, there is
not even a suggestion. There is something that is absolutely
unintelligible musically. In a musical sense a hope is con
tinually experienced, followed by disappointment, as if a
musical thought were commenced only to be broken off. If
there are something like musical commencements, these

WHAT IS ART ? 137

commencements are so short, so encumbered with complica
tions of harmony and orchestration and with effects of con
trast, are so obscure and unfinished, and what is happening
on the stage meanwhile is so abominably false, that it is
difficult even to perceive these musical snatches, let alone to
be infected by them. Above all, from the very beginning
to the very end, and in each note, the author's purpose is so
audible and visible, that one sees and hears neither Siegfried
nor the birds, but only a limited, self-opinionated German
of bad taste and bad style, who has a most false conception of
poetry, and who, in the rudest and most primitive manner,
wishes to transmit to me these false and mistaken con
ceptions of his.

Everyone knows the feeling of distrust and resistance
which is always evoked by an author's evident predeter
mination. A narrator need only say in advance, Prepare
to cry or to laugh, and you are sure neither to cry nor to
laugh. But when you see that an author prescribes emotion
at what is not touching but only laughable or disgusting,
.and when you see, moreover, that the author is fully assured
that he has captivated you, a painfully tormenting feeling
results, similar to what one would feel if an old, deformed
woman put on a ball-dress and smilingly coquetted before
you, confident of your approbation. This impression was
strengthened by the fact that around me I saw a crowd of
three thousand people, who not only patiently witnessed all
this absurd nonsense, but even considered it their duty to be
delighted with it.

I somehow managed to sit out the next scene also, in
which the monster appears, to the accompaniment of his
bass notes intermingled with the motiv of Siegfried; but
after the fight with the monster, and all the roars, fires, and
sword-wavings, I could stand no more of it, and escaped from
the theatre with a feeling of repulsion which, even now, I
•cannot forget.

138 WHAT IS ART?

Listening to this opera, I involuntarily thought of a
respected, wise, educated country labourer, — one, for
instance, of those wise and truly religious men whom I
know among the peasants, — and I pictured to myself the
terrible perplexity such a man would be in were he to
witness what I was seeing that evening.

What would he think if he knew of all the labour spent
on such a performance, and saw that audience, those great
ones of the earth, — old, bald-headed, grey-bearded men,
whom he had been accustomed to respect, — sit silent and
attentive, listening to and looking at all these stupidities for
five hours on end 1 Not to speak of an adult labourer, one
can hardly imagine even a child of over seven occupying
himself with such a stupid, incoherent fairy tale.

And yet an enormous audience, the cream of the cultured
upper classes, sits out five hours of this insane performance,
and goes away imagining that by paying tribute to this
nonsense it has acquired a fresh right to esteem itself
advanced and enlightened.

I speak of the Moscow public. But what is the Moscow
public 1 It is but a hundredth part of that public which,
while considering itself most highly enlightened, esteems it
a merit to have so lost the capacity of being infected by art,
that not only can it witness this stupid sham without being
revolted, but can even take delight in it.

In Eayreuth, where these performances were first given,
people who consider themselves finely cultured assembled
from the ends of the earth, spent, say £100 each, to see
this performance, and for four days running they went to
see and hear this nonsensical rubbish, sitting it out for six
hours each day.

But why did people go, and why do they still go to these
performances, and why do they admire them ? The question
naturally presents itself : How is the success of Wagner's
works to be explained ?

WHAT IS ART? 139

That success I explain to myself in this way : thanks
to his exceptional position in having at his disposal the
resources of a king, Wagner was able to command all
the methods for counterfeiting art which have been
developed by long usage, and, employing these methods
with great ability, he produced a model work of counter
feit art. The reason why I have selected his work for my
Illustration is, that in no other counterfeit of art known to
me are all the methods by which art is counterfeited —
namely, borrowings, imitation, effects, and interestingness
— so ably and powerfully united.

From the subject, borrowed from antiquity, to the clouds
and the risings of the sun and moon, Wagner, in this work,
has made use of all that is considered poetical. We have
here the sleeping beauty, and nymphs, and subterranean
fires, and gnomes, and battles, and swords, and love, and
incest, and a monster, and singing-birds : the whole arsenal
of the poetical is brought into action.

Moreover, everything is imitative : the decorations are
imitated and the costumes are imitated. All is just as,
according to the data supplied by archaeology, they would
have been in antiquity. The very sounds are imitative, for
Wagner, who was not destitute of musical talent, invented
just such sounds as imitate the strokes of a hammer, the
hissing of molten iron, the singing of birds, etc.

Furthermore, in this work everything is in the highest
degree striking in its effects and in its peculiarities : its
monsters, its magic fires, and its scenes under water ; the
darkness in which the audience sit, the invisibility of the
orchestra, and the hitherto unemployed combinations of
harmony.

And besides, it is all interesting. The interest lies not
only in the question who will kill whom, and who will
marry whom, and who is whose son, and what will happen
next1? — the interest lies also in the relation of the music

140 WHAT IS ART?

to the text. The rolling waves of the Ehine — now how
is that to be expressed in music ? An evil gnome appears
— how is the music to express an evil gnome? — and how
is it to express the sensuality of this gnome? How will
bravery, fire, or apples be expressed in music? How are
the leit-motive of the people speaking to be interwoven
with the leit-motive of the people and objects about whom
they speak? Besides, the music has a further interest.
It diverges from all formerly accepted laws, and most
unexpected and totally new modulations crop up (as is
not only possible but even easy in music having no inner
laAv of its being) ; the dissonances are new, and are allowed
in a new way — and this, too, is interesting.

And it is this poeticality, imitativeness, effectfulness, and
interestingness which, thanks to the peculiarities of Wagner's
talent and to the advantageous position in which he was
placed, are in these productions carried to the highest pitch
of perfection, that so act on the spectator, hypnotising him
as one would be hypnotised who should listen for several
consecutive hours to the ravings of a maniac pronounced
with great oratorical power.

People say, "You cannot judge without having seen
Wagner performed at Bayreuth : in the dark, where the
orchestra is out of sight concealed under the stage, and
where the performance is brought to the highest perfec
tion." And this just proves that we have here no question
of art, but one of hypnotism. It is just what the spiritu
alists say. To convince you of the reality of their appari
tions, they usually say, " You cannot judge ; you must try
it, be present at several seances," i.e. come and sit silent
in the dark for hours together in the same room with
semi-sane people, and repeat this some ten times over, and
you shall see all that we see.

Yes, naturally ! Only place yourself in such conditions,
and you may see what you will. But this can be still more

WHAT IS ART? 143

quickly attained by getting drunk or smoking opium. It
is the same when listening to an opera of Wagner's. Sit
in the dark for four days in company with people who
are not quite normal, and, through the auditory nerves,
subject your brain to the strongest action of the sounds
best . adapted to excite it, and you will no doubt be reduced
to an abnormal condition and be enchanted by absurdities.
But to attain this end you do not even need four days ;
the five hours during which one "day" is enacted, as in
Moscow, are quite enough. Nor are five hours needed ;
even one hour is enough for people who have no clear
conception of what art should be, and who have come to
the conclusion in advance that what they are going to see
is excellent, and that indifference or dissatisfaction with
this work will serve as a proof of their inferiority and
lack of culture.

I observed the audience present at this representation.
The people who led the whole audience and gave the tone to
it were those who had previously been hypnotised, and who-
again succumbed to the hypnotic influence to which they
were accustomed. These hypnotised people, being in an
abnormal condition, were perfectly enraptured. Moreover,
all the art critics, who lack the capacity to be infected by
art and therefore always especially prize works like Wagner's
opera where it is all an affair of the intellect, also, with
much profundity, expressed their approval of a work afford
ing such ample material for ratiocination. And following
these two groups went that large city crowd (indifferent to>
art, with their capacity to be infected by it perverted and
partly atrophied), headed by the princes, millionaires, and
art patrons, who, like sorry harriers, keep close to those who
most loudly and decidedly express their opinion.

" Oh yes, certainly! What poetry! Marvellous ! Especi
ally the birds ! " " Yes, yes ! I am quite vanquished ! "
exclaim these people, repeating in various tones what they

142 WHAT IS ART?

have just heard from men whose opinion appears to them
authoritative.

If some people do feel insulted by the absurdity and
spuriousness of the whole thing, they are timidly silent, as
sober men are timid and silent when surrounded by tipsy
ones.

And thus, thanks to the masterly skill with which it
counterfeits art while having nothing in common with it,
a meaningless, coarse, spurious production finds acceptance
all over the world, costs millions of roubles to produce, and
assists more and more to pervert the taste of people of the
upper classes and their conception of what is art.

CHAPTER XIY

I KNOW that most men — not only those considered clever,
but even those who are very clever and capable of
understanding most difficult scientific, mathematical or
philosophic problems — can very seldom discern even the
simplest and most obvious truth if it be such as to oblige
them to admit the falsity of conclusions they have formed,
perhaps with much difficulty — conclusions of which they
are proud, which they have taught to others, and on which
they have built their lives. And therefore I have little
hope that what I adduce as to the perversion of art and
taste in our society will be accepted or even seriously
considered. Nevertheless, I must state fully the inevitable
conclusion to which my investigation into the question of
art has brought me. This investigation has brought me to
the conviction that almost all that our society considers to
be art, good art, and the whole of art, far from being real
and good art, and the whole of art, is not even art at all,
but only a counterfeit of it. This position, I know, will
seem very strange and paradoxical ; but if we once acknow
ledge art to be a human activity by means of which some
people transmit their feelings to others (and not a service
of Beauty, nor a manifestation of the Idea, and so forth), we
shall inevitably have to admit this further conclusion also.
If it is true that art is an activity by means of which one
man having experienced a feeling intentionally transmits it
to others, then we have inevitably to admit further, that of
all that among us is termed the art of the upper classes — of all

143

J44 WHAT IS ART?

those novels, stories, dramas, comedies, pictures, sculptures,
symphonies, operas, operettas, ballets, etc., which profess to
be works A art — scarcely one in a hundred thousand pro-
deeds frdKm emotion felt by its author, all the rest being
v 'b^ mamKctured counterfeits of art in which borrowing,
imitating, effects, and interestingness replace the con
tagion of feeling. That the proportion of real productions
of art is to the counterfeits as one to some hundreds of
thousands or even more, may be seen by the following
calculation. I have read somewhere that the artist painters
in Paris alone number 30,000; there will probably be as
many in England, as many in Germany, and as many in
Russia, Italy, and the smaller states combined. So that in
all there will be in Europe, say, 120,000 painters; and there
are probably as many musicians and as many literary artists.
If these 360,000 individuals produce three works a year each
(and many of them produce ten or more), then each year
yields over a million so-called works of art. How many, then,
must have been produced in the last ten years, and how
many in the whole time since upper-class art broke off from
the art of the whole people 1 Evidently millions. Yet who
of all the connoisseurs of art has received impressions from
all these pseudo works of art 1 Not to mention all the labour
ing classes who have no conception of these productions,
even people of the upper classes cannot know one in a
thousand of them all, and cannot remember those they
have known. These works all appear under the guise of
art, produce no impression on anyone (except when they
serve as pastimes for the idle crowd of rich people), and
vanish utterly.

In reply to this it is usually said that without this
enormous number of unsuccessful attempts we should not
have the real works of art. But such reasoning is as though
a baker, in reply to a reproach that his bread was bad, were
to say that if it were not for the hundreds of spoiled loaves

WHAT IS ART? 145

there would not be any well-baked ones. It is true that
where there is gold there is also much sand ; but that can
not serve as a reason for talking a lot of nonse^fc in order
to say something wise. AL ^

We are surrounded by productions consideiSr artis^Jb.' L'
Thousands of verses, thousands of poems, thousands of novels,
thousands of dramas, thousands of pictures, thousands of x
musical pieces, follow one after another. All the verses
describe love, or nature, or the author's state of mind, and
in all of them rhyme and rhythm are observed. All the
dramas and comedies are splendidly mounted and are per
formed by admirably trained actors. All the novels are
divided into chapters ; all of them describe love, contain
effective situations, and correctly describe the details of life.
All the symphonies contain allegro, andante, scherzo, and
finale ; all consist of modulations and chords, and are played
by highly-trained musicians. All the pictures, in gold frames,
saliently depict faces and sundry accessories. But among
these productions in the various branches of art there is in
each branch one among hundreds of thousands, not only
somewhat better than the rest, but differing from them as a
diamond differs from paste. The one is priceless, the others
not only have no value but are worse than valueless, for
they deceive and pervert taste. And yet, externally, they
are, to a man of perverted or atrophied artistic perception,
precisely alike.

In our society the difficulty of recognising real works of
art is further increased by the fact that the external quality
of the work in false productions is not only no worse, but
often better, than in real ones ; the counterfeit is often
more effective than the real, and its subject more interesting.
How is one to discriminate 1 How is one to find a production
in no way distinguished in externals from hundreds of thou
sands of others intentionally made to imitate it precisely ?

For a country peasant of unperverted taste this is as
10

146 WHAT IS ART?

easy as it is for an animal of unspoilt scent to follow
the trace he needs among a thousand others in wood or
forest. The animal unerringly finds what he needs. So
also the man, if only his natural qualities have not been
perverted, will, without fail, select from among thousands
of objects the real work of art he requires — that infecting
him with the feeling experienced by the artist. But it is
not so with those whose taste has been perverted by their
education and life. The receptive feeling for art of these
people is atrophied, and in valuing artistic productions they
must be guided by discussion and study, which discus
sion and study completely confuse them. So that most
people in our society are quite unable to distinguish a work
of art from the grossest counterfeit. People sit for whole
hours in concert-rooms and theatres listening to the new
composers, consider it a duty to read the novels of the
famous modern novelists and to look at pictures represent
ing either something incomprehensible or just the very
things they see much better in real life; and, above all,
they consider it incumbent on them to be enraptured by
all this, imagining it all to be art, while at the same time
they will pass real works of art by, not only without
attention, but even with contempt, merely because, in their
circle, these works are not included in the list of works
of art.

A few days ago I was returning home from a walk feeling
depressed, as occurs sometimes. On nearing the house I
heard the loud singing of a large choir of peasant women.
They were welcoming my daughter, celebrating her return
home after her marriage. In this singing, with its cries
and clanging of scythes, such a definite feeling of joy,
cheerfulness, and energy was expressed, that, without
noticing how it infected me, I continued my way towards
the house in a better mood, and reached home smiling and
quite in good spirits. That same evening, a visitor, an

WHAT IS ART? 147

admirable musician, famed for his execution of classical
music, and particularly of Beethoven, played us Beethoven's
sonata, Opus 101. For the benefit of those who might
otherwise attribute my judgment of that sonata of Beethoven
to non-comprehension of it, I should mention that whatever
other people understand of that sonata and of other
productions of Beethoven's later period, I, being very
susceptible to music, equally understood. For a long time
I used to atune myself so as to delight in those shapeless
improvisations which form the subject-matter of the works
of Beethoven's later period, but I had only to consider the
question of art seriously, and to compare the impression
I received from Beethoven's later Avorks with those pleasant,
clear, and strong musical impressions which are transmitted,
for instance, by the melodies of Bach (his arias), Haydn,
Mozart, Chopin (when his melodies are not overloaded
with complications and ornamention), and of Beethoven
himself in his earlier period, and above all, with the
impressions produced by folk-songs, — Italian, Norwegian,
or Russian, — by the Hungarian tzar das, and other such
simple, clear, and powerful music, and the obscure, almost
unhealthy excitement from Beethoven's later pieces that I
had artificially evoked in myself was immediately destroyed.
On the completion of the performance (though it was
noticeable that everyone had become dull) those present, in
the accepted manner, warmly praised Beethoven's profound
production, and did not forget to add that formerly they
had not been able to understand that last period of his,
but that they now saw that he was really then at his very
best. And when I ventured to compare the impression
made on me by the singing of the peasant women — an
impression which had been shared by all who heard it — with
the effect of this sonata, the admirers of Beethoven only
smiled contemptuously, not considering it necessary to reply
to such strange remarks.

148 WHAT IS ART?

But, for all that, the song of the peasant women was real
art, transmitting a definite and strong feeling; while the
101st sonata of Beethoven was only an unsuccessful attempt
at art, containing no definite feeling and therefore not
infectious.

For my work on art I have this winter read diligently,
though with great effort, the celebrated novels and stories,
praised by all Europe, written by Zola, Bourget, Huysmans,
and Kipling. At the same time I chanced on a story in a
child's magazine, and by a quite unknown writer, which told
of the Easter preparations in a poor widow's family. Th*
story tells how the mother managed with difficulty to obtain
some wheat-flour, which she poured on the table ready to
knead. She then went out to procure some yeast, telling
the children not to leave the hut, and to take care of the
flour. When the mother had gone, some other children
ran shouting near the window, calling those in the hut to
come to play. The children forgot their mother's warning,
ran into the street, and were soon engrossed in the game.
The mother, on her return with the yeast, finds a hen
on the table throwing the last of the flour to her chickens,
who were busily picking it out of the dust of the earthen
floor. The mother, in despair, scolds the children, who cry
bitterly. And the mother begins to feel pity for them — but
the white flour has all gone. So to mend matters she
decides to make the Easter cake with sifted rye-flour,
brushing it over with white of egg and surrounding it
with eggs. "Rye-bread which we bake is akin to any
cake," says the mother, using a rhyming proverb to console
the children for not having an Easter cake made with white
flour. And the children, quickly passing from despair to
rapture, repeat the proverb and await the Easter cake more
merrily even than before.

Well ! the reading of the novels and stories by Zola,
Bourget, Huysmans, Kipling, and others, handling the most

WHAT IS ART? 149

harrowing subjects, did not touch me for one moment, and
I was provoked with the authors all the while, as one is
provoked with a man who considers you so naive that he
does not even conceal the trick by which he intends to take
you in. From the first lines you see the intention with
which the book is written, and the details all become super
fluous, and one feels dull. Above all, one knows that the
author had no other feeling all the time than a desire to
write a story or a novel, and so one receives 110 artistic im
pression. On the other hand, I could not tear myself away
from the unknown author's tale of the children and the
chickens, because I was at once infected by the feeling which
the author had evidently experienced, re-evoked in himself,
and transmitted.

Vasnetsoff is one of our Russian painters. He has painted
ecclesiastical pictures in Kieff Cathedral, and everyone
praises him as the founder of some new, elevated kind of
Christian art. He worked at those pictures for ten years,
was paid tens of thousands of roubles for them, and they are
all simply bad imitations of imitations of imitations, destitute
of any spark of feeling. And this same Vasnetsoff drew a
picture for Tourgenieff s story " The Quail " (in which it is
told how, in his son's presence, a father killed a quail and
felt pity for it), showing the boy asleep with pouting upper
lip, and above him, as a dream, the quail. And this picture
is a true work of art.

In the English Academy of 1897 two pictures were
exhibited together; one of which, by J. C. Dolman, was the
temptation of St. Anthony. The Saint is on his knees praying.
Behind him stands a naked woman and animals of some
kind. It is apparent that the naked woman pleased the
artist very much, but that Anthony did not concern him at
all ; and that, so far from the temptation being terrible to
him (the artist) it is highly agreeable. And therefore if
there be any art in this picture, it is very nacty and false.

150 WHAT IS ART?

Next in the same book of academy pictures comes a picture
by Langley, showing a stray beggar boy, who has evidently
been called in by a woman who has taken pity on him.
The boy, pitifully drawing his bare feet under the bench,
is eating ; the woman is looking on, probably considering
whether he will not want some more ; and a girl of about
seven, leaning on her arm, is carefully and seriously looking
on, not taking her eyes from the hungry boy, and evidently
understanding for the first time what poverty is, and what
inequality among people is, and asking herself why she has
everything provided for her while this boy goes bare-foot
and hungry? She feels sorry and yet pleased. And she
loves both the boy and goodness. . . . And one feels that
the artist loved this girl, and that she too loves. And this
picture, by an artist who, I think, is not very widely known,
is an admirable and true work of art.

I remember seeing a performance of Hamlet by Rossi.
Both the tragedy itself and the performer who took the
chief part are considered by our critics to represent the
climax of supreme dramatic art. And yet, both from the
subject-matter of the drama and from the performance, I
experienced all the time that peculiar suffering which is
caused by false imitations of works of art. And I lately
read of a theatrical performance among the savage tribe the
Voguls. A spectator describes the play. A big Vogul and a
a little one, both dressed in reindeer skins, represent a rein
deer-doe and its young. A third Yogul, with a bow, repre
sents a huntsman on snow-shoes, and a fourth imitates with
his voice a bird that warns the reindeer of their danger. The
play is that the huntsman follows the track that the doe
with its young one has travelled. The deer run off the
scene and again reappear. (Such performances take place
in a small tent-house.) The huntsman gains more and more
on the pursued. The little deer is tired, and presses against
its mother. The doe stops to draw breath. The hunter

WHAT IS ART? 151

comes up with them and draws his bow. But just then the
bird sounds its note, warning the deer of their danger.
They escape. Again there is a chasej and again the hunter
gains on them, catches them and lets fly his arrow. The
arrow strikes the young deer. Unable to run, the little one
presses against its mother. The mother licks its wound.
The hunter draws another arrow. The audience, as the
eye-witness describes them, are paralysed with suspense ;
deep groans and even weeping is heard among them. And,
from the mere description, I felt that this was a true work
of art.

What I am saying will be considered irrational paradox,
at which one can only be amazed ; but for all that I must
say what I think, namely, that people of our circle, of whom
some compose verses, stories, novels, operas, symphonies,
and sonatas, paint all kinds of pictures and make statues,
while others hear and look at these things, and again others
appraise and criticise it all, discuss, condemn, triumph, and
raise monuments to one another generation after generation,
— that all these people, with very few exceptions, artists,
and public, and critics, have never (except in childhood and
earliest youth, before hearing any discussions on art), ex
perienced that simple feeling familiar to the plainest man
and even to a child, that sense of infection with another's
feeling, — compelling us to joy in another's gladness, to
sorrow at another's grief, and to mingle souls with another,
— which is the very essence of art. And therefore these
people not only cannot distinguish true works of art from
counterfeits, but continually mistake for real art the worst
and most artificial, while they do not even perceive works
of real art, because the counterfeits are always more ornate,
while true art is modest.

o J AJuJL

CHAPTEK XV

ART, in our society, has been so perverted that not only has
bad art come to be considered good, but even the very per
ception of what art really is has been lost. In ordejr tq be
able to speak about the art of our society, it is, therefore,
first of all necessary to distinguish art from counterfeit art.

There is one indubitable indication distinguishing real
art from its counterfeit, namely, the infectiousness of art.
If a man, without exercising effort and without altering his
istandpoint, on reading, hearing, or seeing another man's
(work, experiences a mental condition which unites him
[with that man and with other people who also partake of
that work of art, then the object evoking that condition is
a work of art. And however poetical, realistic, effectful, or
interesting a work may be, it is not a work of art if it does
not evoke that feeling (quite distinct from all other feelings)
of joy, and of spiritual union with another (the author) and
with others (those who are also infected by it).

It is true that this indication is an internal one, and that
there are people who have forgotten what the action of real
art is, who expect something else from art (in our society
the great majority are in this state), and that therefore such
people may mistake for this aesthetic feeling the feeling of
divertisement and a certain excitement which they receive
from counterfeits of art. But though it is impossible to
undeceive these people, just as it is impossible to convince
a man suffering from "Daltonism" that green is not red,
yet, for all that, this indication remains perfectly definite

152

WHAT IS ART? 153

to those whose feeling for art is neither perverted nor
atrophied, and it clearly distinguishes the feeling produced
by art from all other feelings.

The chief peculiarity of this feeling is that the receiver of
a true artistic impression is so united to the artist that he/
feels as if the work were his own and not someone else's; — >
as if what it expresses were just what he had long been'
wishing to express. A real work of art destroys, in the'
consciousness of the receiver, the separation between him
self and the artist, nor that alone, but also between himself
and all whose minds receive this work of art. In this
freeing of our personality from its separation and isolation, | j
in this uniting of it with others, lies the chief characteristic \ ,
and the great attractive force of art.

If a man is infected by the author's condition of soul, if ,
he feels this emotion and this union with others, then the
object \vhich has effected this is art; but if there be no
such infection, if there be not this union with the author ^
and with others who are moved by the same work — then it ;
is not art. And not only is infection a sure sign of art,
but the degree of infectiousness is also the sole measure of
excellence in art.

The stronger the infection the better is the art, as art,
speaking now apart from its subject-matter, i.e. not con
sidering the quality of the feelings it transmits.

And the degree of the infectiousness of art depends on
three conditions : —

(1) On the greater or lesser individuality of the feeling
transmitted ; (2) on the greater or lesser clearness with :
which the feeling is transmitted; (3) on the sincerity of the
artist, i.e. on the greater or lesser force with which the artist
himself feels the emotion he transmits.

The more individual the feeling transmitted the more
strongly does it act on the receiver ; the more individual
the state of soul into which he is transferred the more

154 WHAT JS ART?

\ pleasure does the receiver obtain, and therefore the more
\readily and strongly does he join in it.

The clearness of expression assists infection, because the
receiver, who mingles in consciousness with the author, is
the better satisfied the more clearly the feeling is trans
mitted, which, as it seems to him, he has long known and
felt, and for which he has only now found expression.

But most of all is the degree of infectiousness of art
\ increased by the degree of sincerity in the artist. As soon
as the spectator, hearer, or reader feels that the artist is
infected by his own production, and writes, sings, or plays
for himself and not merely to act on others, this mental con
dition of the artist infects the receiver ; and, contrariwise,
as soon as the spectator, reader, or hearer feels that the author
is not writing, singing, or playing for his own satisfaction, —
does not himself feel what he wishes to express, — but is doing
it for him, the receiver, a resistance immediately springs up,
and the most individual and the newest feelings and the
cleverest technique not only fail to produce any infection
but actually repel.

I have mentioned three conditions of contagiousness in
art, but they may all be summed up into one, the last,
sincerity, i.e. that the artist should be impelled by an inner
'\ need to express his feeling. That condition includes the
jfirst ; for if the artist is sincere he will express the feeling
'as he experienced it. And as each man is different from
everyone else, his feeling will be individual for everyone
else ; and the more individual it is, — the more the artist
has drawn it from the depths of his nature, — the more
sympathetic and sincere will it be. And this same sincerity
will impel the artist to find a clear expression of the feeling
which he wishes to transmit.

Therefore this third condition — sincerity — is the most
important of the three. It is always complied with in
peasant art, and this explains why such art always acts so

WHAT IS ART? 155

powerfully; but it is a condition almost entirely absent
from our upper-class art, which is continually produced by
artists actuated by personal aims of covetousness or vanity.

Such are the three conditions which divide art from its
counterfeits, and which also decide the quality of every
w.ork of art apart from its subject-matter.

The absence of any one of these conditions excludes a
work from the category of art and relegates it to that of
art's counterfeits. If the work does not transmit the
artist's peculiarity of feeling, and is therefore not individual,
if it is unintelligibly expressed, or if it has not proceeded
from the author's inner need for expression — it is not a
work of art. If all these conditions are present, even in
the smallest degree, then the work, even if a weak one, is
yet a work of art.

The presence in various degrees of these three conditions :
individuality, clearness, and sincerity, decides the merit of
a work of art, as art, apart from subject-matter. All works
of art take rank of merit according to the degree in which
they fulfil the first, the second, and the third of these con
ditions. In one the individuality of the feeling transmitted
may predominate ; in another, clearness of expression ; in a
third, sincerity '} while a fourth may have sincerity and
individuality but be deficient in clearness ; a fifth, individ
uality and clearness, but less sincerity ; and so forth, in all
possible degrees and combinations.

Thus is art divided from not art, and thus is the quality
of art, as art, decided, independently of its subject-matter,
i.e. apart from whether the feelings it transmits are good or
bad.

But how are we to define good and bad art with reference
to its subject-matter ?

N- Jr-if- UM>.-

f

**

f**f Y" off-

CHAPTER XVI

How in art are we to decide what is good and what is
bad in subject-matter?

Art, like speech, is a means of communication, and
I therefore of progress, i.e. of the movement of humanity
\ forward towards perfection. Speech renders accessible to
men of the latest generations all the knowledge discovered
by the experience and reflection, both of preceding genera
tions and of the best and foremost men of their own times ;
art renders accessible to men of the latest generations all
| the feelings experienced by their predecessors, and those
I also which are being felt by their best and foremost con-
l temporaries, And as the evolution of knowledge proceeds
by truer and more necessary knowledge dislodging and
replacing what is mistaken and unnecessary, so the evolu
tion of feeling proceeds through art, — feelings less kind and
/less needful for the well-being of mankind are replaced by
'others kinder and more needful for that end. That is the
purpose of art. And, speaking now of its subject-matter,
the more art fulfils that purpose the better the art, and the
less it fulfils it the worse the art.

And the appraisement of feelings (i.e. the acknowledgment
of these or those feelings as being more or less good, more
or less necessary for the well-being of mankind) is made by
ifhe religious perception of the age.

i In every period of history, and in every human society,
there exists an understanding of the meaning of life which
represents the highest level to which men of that society

156

WHAT IS ART? 157

have attained, — an understanding denning the highest good,?
at which that society aims. And this understanding is the «
religious perception of the given time and society. And '
this religious perception is ahvays clearly expressed by some
advanced men, and more or less vividly perceived by all the
members of the society. Such a religious perception and its
corresponding expression exists always in every society. If
it appears to us that in our society there is no religious
perception, this is not because there really is none, but only
because we do not want to see it. And we often wish not
to see it because it exposes the fact that our life is incon
sistent with that religious perception.

Religious perception in a society is like the direction of
a flowing river. If the river flows at all, it must have
a direction. If a society lives, there must be a religious
perception indicating the direction in which, more or less
consciously, all its members tend.

And so there always has been, and there is, a religious
perception in every society. And it is by the standard of -^
this religious perception that the feelings transmitted by art ? 1
have always been estimated. Only on the basis of this
religious perception of their age have men always chosen from
the endlessly varied spheres of art that art which transmitted
feelings making religious perception operative in actual life.
And such art has always been highly valued and encouraged;
while art transmitting feelings already outlived, flowing from
the antiquated religious perceptions of a former age, has
always been condemned and despised. All the rest of art,
transmitting those most diverse feelings by means of which
people commune together, was not condemned, and was
tolerated, if only it did not transmit feelings contrary to
religious perception. Thus, for instance, among the Greeks,
art transmitting the feeling of beauty, strength, and courage
(Hesiod, Homer, Phidias) was chosen, approved, and encour
aged; while art transmitting feelings of rude sensuality,

158 WHAT IS ART?

despondency, and effeminacy was condemned and despised.
Among the Jews, art transmitting feelings of devotion and
submission to the God of the Hebrews and to His will (the
epic of Genesis, the prophets, the Psalms) was chosen and
encouraged, while art transmitting feelings of idolatry (the
golden calf) was condemned and despised. All the rest of
art — stories, songs, dances, ornamentation of houses, of
utensils, and of clothes — which was not contrary to religious
perception, was neither distinguished nor discussed. Thus,
in regard to its subject-matter, has art been appraised always
and everywhere, and thus it should be appraised, for this
attitude towards art proceeds from the fundamental charac
teristics of human nature, and those characteristics do not
change.

I know that according to an opinion current in our times,
religion is a superstition, which humanity has outgrown, and
that it is therefore assumed that no such thing exists as a
religious perception common to us all by which art, in our
time, can be estimated. I know that this is the opinion
current in the pseudo-cultured circles of to-day. People
who do not acknowledge Christianity in its true meaning
because it undermines all their social privileges, and who,
therefore, invent all kinds of philosophic and aesthetic theories
to hide from themselves the meaninglessness and wrongness
of their lives, cannot think otherwise. These people inten
tionally, or sometimes unintentionally, confusing the con
ception of a religious cult with the conception of religious
perception, think that by denying the cult they get rid of
religious perception. But even the very attacks on religion,
and the attempts to establish a life-conception contrary to
the religious perception of our times, most clearly demon
strate the existence of a religious perception condemning
the lives that are not in harmony with it.

If humanity progresses, i.e. moves forward, there must
inevitably be a guide to the direction of that movement.

WHAT IS ART? 15^

And religions have always furnished that guide. All
history shows that the progress of humanity is accomplished
not otherwise than under the guidance of religion. But if
the race cannot progress without the guidance of religion,
— and progress is always going on, and consequently
also in our own times, — then there must be a religion
of our times. So that, whether it pleases or displeases
the so-called cultured people of to-day, they must admit
the existence of religion — not of a religious cult, Catholic,
Protestant, or another, but of religious perception — which,
even in our times, is the guide always present where
there is any progress. And if a religious perception exists
amongst us, then our art should be appraised on the
basis of that religious perception ; and, as has always
and everywhere been the case, art transmitting feelings
flowing from the religious perception of our time should
be chosen from all the indifferent art, should be acknow
ledged, highly esteemed, and encouraged ; while art running
counter to that perception should be condemned and
despised, and all the remaining indifferent art should
neither be distinguished nor encouraged.

The religious perception of our time, in its widest and
most practical application, is the consciousness that our well-
being, both material and spiritual, individual and collective,
temporal and eternal, lies in the growth of brotherhood
among all men — in their loving harmony with one another.
This perception is not only expressed by Christ and all the
best men of past ages, it is not only repeated in the most
varied forms and from most diverse sides by the best men
of our own times, but it already serves as a clue to all the
complex labour of humanity, consisting as this labour does,
on the one hand, in the destruction of physical and moral
obstacles to the union of men, and, on the other hand, in
establishing the principles common to all men which can,
and should unite them into one universal brotherhood.'

11 />. ''.*>• ' -in

t

-jo WHAT IS ART?

And it is on the basis of this perception that we should
appraise all the phenomena of our life, and, among the rest,
our art also ; choosing from all its realms whatever transmits
feelings flowing from this religious perception, highly prizing
and encouraging such art, rejecting whatever is contrary to
this perception, and not attributing to the rest of art an
importance not properly pertaining to it.

The chief mistake made by people of the upper classes

of the time of the so-called Renaissance, — a mistake which

we still perpetuate, — was not that they ceased to value and

to attach importance to religious art (people of that period

could not attach importance to it, because, like our own

i upper classes, they could not believe in what the majority

\ considered to be religion), but their mistake was that they

'set up in place of religious art which was lacking, an

{insignificant art which aimed only at giving pleasure, i.e.

they began to choose, to value, and to encourage, in place

of religious art, something which, in any case, did not deserve

such esteem and encouragement.

One of the Fathers of the Church said that the great
evil is not that men do not know God, but that they have
set up, instead of God, that which is not God. So also with
art. The great misfortune of the people of the upper
classes of our time is not so much that they are without a
religious art, as that, instead of a supreme religious art,
I chosen from all the rest as being specially important and
valuable, they have chosen a most insignificant and, usually,
harmful art, which aims at pleasing certain people, and
which, therefore, if only by its exclusive nature, stands in
contradiction to that Christian principle of universal union
which forms the religious perception of our time. Instead
of religious art, an empty and often vicious art is set up,
and this hides from men's notice the need of that true
religious art which should be present in life ID order to
improve it.

. WHAT IS ART? 161

It is true that art which satisfies the demands of the
religious perception of our time is quite unlike former
art, hut, notwithstanding this dissimilarity, to a man
who does not intentionally hide the truth from himself,
it is very clear and definite what does form the religious
art of our age. In former times, when the highest
religious perception united only some people (who, even
if they formed a large society, were yet but one
society surrounded by others — Jews, or Athenian or Roman
citizens), the feelings transmitted by the art of that time
flowed from a desire for the might, greatness, glory, and
prosperity of that society, and the heroes of art might be
people who contributed to that prosperity by strength, by
craft, by fraud, or by cruelty (Ulysses, Jacob, David, Samson,
Hercules, and all the heroes). But the religious perception
of our times does not select any one society of men ; on
the contrary, it demands the union of all — absolutely of all
people without exception — and above every other virtue it
sets brotherly love to all men. And, therefore, the feelings
transmitted by the art of our time not only cannot coincide
with the feelings transmitted by iormer art, but must run
counter to them.

Christian, truly Christian, art has been so long in establish
ing itself, and has not yet established itself, just because the
Christian religious perception was not one of those small
steps by which humanity advances regularly, but was an
enormous revolution, which, if it has not already altered,
must inevitably alter the entire life-conception of mankind,
and, consequently, the whole internal organisation of their
life. It is true that the life of humanity, like that of an
individual, moves regularly ; but in that regular movement
come, as it were, turning-points, which sharply divide the
preceding from the subsequent life. Christianity was such
a turning-point; such, at least, it must appear to us who
live by the Christian perception of life. Christian perception
1 1

1 62 WHAT IS ART?

gave another, a new direction to all human feelings, and
therefore completely altered both the contents and the
significance of art. The Greeks could make use of Persian
art and the Eomans could use Greek art, or, similarly, the
Jews could use Egyptian art, — the fundamental ideals
were one and the same. Now the ideal was the great
ness and prosperity of the Persians, now the greatness
and prosperity of the Greeks, now that of the Eomans.
The same art was transferred into other conditions, and
served new nations. But the Christian ideal changed
and reversed everything, so that, as the Gospel puts it,
"That which was exalted among men has become an
i abomination in the sight of God." The ideal is no longer
\ the greatness of Pharaoh or of a Eomaii emperor, not the
beauty of a Greek nor the wealth of Phoenicia, but humility,
I purity, compassion, love. The hero is no longer Dives, but
Lazarus the beggar ; not Mary Magdalene in the day of her
beauty, but in the day of her repentance ; not those who
acquire wealth, but those who have abandoned it ; not those
who dwell in palaces, but those who dwell in catacombs and
huts; not those who rule over others, but those who
acknowledge 110 authority but God's. And the greatest
work of art is no longer a cathedral of victory l with statues
of conquerors, but the representation of a human soul
so transformed by love that a man who is tormented and
murdered yet pities and loves his persecutors.

And the change is so great that men of the Christian

world find it difficult to resist the inertia of the heathen

art to which they have been accustomed all their lives. The

- subject-matter of Christian religious art is so new to them,

{ so unlike the subject-matter of former art, that it seems to

I them as though Christian art were a denial of art, and they

1 There is in Moscow a magnificent "Cathedral of our Saviour,"
erected to commemorate the defeat of the French in the war of 1812.
—Trans.

WHAT IS ART? 163

cling desperately to the old art. But this old art, having
no longer, in our day, any source in religious perception,
has lost its meaning, and we shall have to abandon it
whether we wish to or not.

The essence of the Christian perception consists in the
recognition by every man of his sonship to God, and of the
consequent union of men with God and with one another,
as is said in the Gospel (John xvii. 21 l). Therefore the
subject-matter of Christian art is such feeling as can unite J,
men with God and with one another.

The expression unite men idtli God and with one
another may seem obscure to people accustomed to the
misuse of these words which is so customary, but the words
have a perfectly clear meaning nevertheless. They indicate
that the Christian union of man (in contradiction to the
partial, exclusive union of only some men) is that which
unites all without exception.

Art, all art, has this characteristic, that it unites
people. Every art causes those to whom the artist's
feeling is transmitted to unite in soul with the artist, and
also with all who receive the same impression. But non-
Christian art, while uniting some people together, makes
tli at very union a cause of separation between these united
people and others; so that union of this kind is often a ^
source, not only of division, but even of enmity towards 1
others. Such is all patriotic art, with its anthems, poems, \
and monuments; such is all Church art, i.e. the art of
certain cults, with their images, statues, processions, and
other local ceremonies. Such art is belated and non-
Christian art, uniting the people of one cult only to
separate them yet more sharply from the members of other -
cults, and even to place them in relations of hostility to
each other. Christian art is only such as tends to unite all

1 "That they may be one ; even as thou, Father, art in me, and L
in thee, that they also may be in us."

1 64 WHAT IS ART?

without exception, either by evoking in them the percep
tion that each man and all men stand in like relation
towards God and towards their neighbour, or by evoking in
them identical feelings, which may even be the very simplest
provided only that they are not repugnant to Christianity
and are natural to every^ne_jgii^xmt-exc£gition.

Good Christian art of our time may be unintelligible to
people because of imperfections in its form, or because men
are inattentive to it, but it must be such that all men can
experience the feelings it transmits. It must be the art,
not of some one group of people, nor of one class, nor of
one nationality, nor of one religious cult ; that is, it must
not transmit feelings which are accessible only to a man
educated in a certain way, or only to an aristocrat, or a
merchant, or only to a Kussian, or a native of Japan,
or a Roman Catholic, or a Buddhist, etc., but it must
transmit feelings accessible to everyone. Only art of
this kind can be acknowledged in our time to be good
art, worthy of being chosen out from all the rest of art
and encouraged.

Christian art, i.e. the art of our time, should be catholic
J.n the original meaning of the word, i.e. universal, and
^ therefore it should unite all men. And only two kinds
[ /of feeling do unite all men : first, feelings flowing from the
[perception of our sonship to God and of the brotherhood
I of man ; and next, the simple feelings of common life,
! accessible to everyone without exception — such as the
feeling of merriment, of pity, of cheerfulness, of tran
quillity, etc. Only these two kinds of feelings can now
supply material for art good in its subject-matter.

And the action of these two kinds of art, apparently so
dissimilar, is one and the same. The feelings flowing from
perception of our sonship to God and of the brotherhood
of man — such as a feeling of sureness in truth, devotion to
the will of God, self-sacrifice, respect for and love of man —

WHAT IS ART? 165

evoked by Christian religious perception ; and the simplest
feelings — such as a softened or a merry mood caused by
a song or an amusing jest intelligible to everyone, or by
a touching story, or a drawing, or a little doll : both alike
produce one and the same effect — the loving union of man
with man. Sometimes people who are together are, if not
hostile to one another, at least estranged in mood and
feeling, till perchance a story, a performance, a picture, or
even a building, but oftenest of all music, unites them all
as by an electric flash, and, in place of their former isolation
or even enmity, they are all conscious of union and mutual
love. Each is glad that another feels what he feels ; glad
of the communion established, not only between him ,and
all present, but also with all now living who will yet share
the same impression; and more than that, he feels the
mysterious gladness of a communion which, reaching beyond
the grave, unites us with all men of the past who have
been moved by the same feelings, and with all men of the
future who will yet be touched by them. And this effect. -
is produced both by the religious art which transmits .»
feelings of love to God and one's neighbour, and by universal {
art transmitting the very simplest feelings common to all (
men.

The art of our time should be appraised differently from
former art chiefly in this, that the art of our time, i.e.
Christian art (basing itself on a religious perception which
demands the jmion of man), excludes from the domain of
art good in subject-matter everything transmitting exclusive
feelings, which do not unite but divide men. It relegates
such work to the category of art bad in its subject-matter,
while, on the other hand, it includes in the category of art
good in subject-matter a section not formerly admitted to
deserve to be chosen out and respected, namely, universal
art transmitting even the most trifling and simple feelings
if only thev are accessible to all men without exception,

1 66 WHAT IS ART?

and therefore unite them. Such art cannot, in our time,
but be esteemed good, for it attains the end which the
" religious perception of our time, i.e. Christianity, sets before
humanity.

Christian art either evokes in men those feelings which,
through love of God and of one's neighbour, draw them
to greater and ever greater union, and make them ready
for and capable of such union ; or evokes in them those
feelings which show them that they are already united in
the joys and sorrows of life. And therefore the Christian
art of our time can be and is of two kinds : (1) art trans
mitting feelings flowing from a religious perception of
man's position in the world in relation to God and to his
neighbour — religious art in the limited meaning of the
term; and (2) art transmitting the simplest feelings of
common life, but such, always, as are accessible to all men
in the whole world — the art of common life — the art of a

J people — universal art. Only these two kinds of art can be

\ considered good art in our time.

-~ ' The first, religious art, — transmitting both positive feelings
of love to God and one's neighbour, and negative feelings of
indignation and horror at the violation of love, — manifests
itself chiefly in the form of words, and to some extent also
in painting and sculpture : the second kind (universal art)
transmitting feelings accessible to all, manifests itself in
words, in painting, in sculpture, in dances, in architecture,
and, most of all, in music.

If I were asked to give modern examples of each of these
kinds of art, then, as examples of the highest art, flowing
from love of God and man (both of the higher, positive, and
of the lower, negative kind), in literature I should name
The Robbers by Schiller : Victor Hugo's Les Pauvres Gens
and Les Miserables : the novels and stories of Dickens —
The Tale of Tioo Cities, The Christmas Carol, The Chimes,
and others : UncU Tom's Cabin : Dostoievsky's works — •

WHAT 7.9 ART? • 167

especially his Memoirs from the House of Death : and Adam }
Bede by George Eliot.

In modern painting, strange to say, works of this kind,
directly transmitting the Christian feeling of love of God
and of one's neighbour, are hardly to be found, especially
among the works of the celebrated painters. There are
plenty of pictures treating of the Gospel stories ; they, how
ever, depict historical events with great wealth of detail, but
do not, and cannot, transmit religious feeling not possessed
by their painters. There are many pictures treating of the
personal feelings of various people, but of pictures repre
senting great deeds of self-sacrifice and of Christian love
there are very few, and what there are are principally by
artists who are not celebrated, and are, for the most part,
not pictures but merely sketches. Such, for instance, is the
drawing by Kramskoy (worth many of his finished pictures),
showing a drawing-room with a balcony, past which troops
are marching in triumph on their return from the war. On
the balcony stands a wet-nurse holding a baby and a boj.
They are admiring the procession of the troops, but the
mother, covering her face with a handkerchief, has fallen
back on the sofa, sobbing. Such also is the picture by
A¥alter Langley, to which I have already referred, and such
again is a picture by the French artist Morion, depicting
a lifeboat hastening, in a heavy storm, to the relief of a
steamer that is being wrecked. Approaching these in kind
are pictures which represent the hard-working peasant
with respect and love. Such are the pictures by Millet,
and, particularly, his drawing, "The Man with the Hoe,"
also pictures in this style by Jules Breton, L'Hermitte,
Defregger, and others. As examples of pictures evoking
indignation and horror at the violation of love to God
and man, Gay's picture, " Judgment," may serve, and also
Leizen-Mayer's, "Signing the Death Warrant." But there
are also very few of this kind. Anxiety about the technique

i6S WHAT IS ART?

and the beauty of the picture for the most part obscures the
feeling. For instance, Gerome's "Pollice Yerso " expresses,
not so much horror at what is being perpetrated as attrac
tion by the beauty of the spectacle.1

To give examples, from the modern art of our upper
classes, of art of the second kind, good universal art or even
of the art of a whole people, is yet more difficult, especially
in literary art and music. If there .are some works which
by their inner contents might be assigned to this class
(such as Don Quixote, Moliere's comedies, David Copperfield
and The Pickwick Papers by Dickens, Gogol's and Pushkin's
tales, and some things of Maupassant's), these works are for
the most part — from the exceptional nature of the feelings
they transmit, and the superfluity of special details of time
and locality, and, above all, on account of the poverty of their
subject-matter in comparison with examples of universal
ancient art (such, for instance, as the story of Joseph) —
comprehensible only to people of their own circle. That
Joseph's brethren, being jealous of his father's afiection, sell
him to the merchants ; that Potiphar's wife wishes to tempt
the youth ; that having attained the highest station, he takes
pity on his brothers, including Benjamin the favourite, —
these and all the rest are feelings accessible alike to a
liussian peasant, a Chinese, an African, a child, or an old
man, educated or uneducated; and it is all written with
such restraint, is so free from any superfluous detail, that
the story may be told to any circle and will be equally
comprehensible and touching to everyone. But not such are
the feelings of Don Quixote or of Moliere's heroes (though
Moliere is perhaps the most universal, and therefore the
most excellent, artist of modern times), nor of Pickwick
and his friends. These feelings are not common to all

1 In this picture the spectators in the Roman Amphitheatre are
turning down their thumbs to show that they wish the vanquished
gladiator to be killed. — Trans.

WHAT IS ART? 169

men but very exceptional, and therefore, to make them
infectious, the authors have surrounded them with abundant
details of time and place. And this abundance of detail
makes the stories difficult of comprehension to all people
not living within reach of the conditions described by the
author.

The author of the novel of Joseph did not need to
describe in detail, as would be done nowadays, the blood
stained coat of Joseph, the dwelling and dress of Jacob, the
pose and attire of Potiphar's wife, and how, adjusting the
bracelet on her left arm, she said, " Come to me," and so on,
because the subject-matter of feelings in this novel is so
strong that all details, except the most essential, — such as
that Joseph went out into another room to weep, — are
superfluous, and would only hinder the transmission of
feelings. And therefore this novel is accessible to all men,
touches people of all nations and classes, young and old,
and has lasted to our times, and will yet last for thousands
of years to come. But strip the best novels of our times of
their details, and what will remain ?

It is therefore impossible in modern literature to indicate
works fully satisfying the demands of universality. Such
works as exist are, to a great extent, spoilt by what is
usually called "realism," but would be better termed
"provincialism," in art.

In music the same occurs as in verbal art, and for similar
reasons. In consequence of the poorness of the feeling
they contain, the melodies of the modern composers are
amazingly empty and insignificant. And to strengthen
the impression produced by these empty melodies, the new
musicians pile complex modulations on to each trivial melody,
not only in their own national manner, but also in the way
characteristic of their own exclusive circle and particular
musical school. Melody — every melody — is free, and may
be understood of all men ; but as soon as it is bound up

I/O WHAT IS ART?

with a particular harmony, it ceases to be accessible except
to people trained to such harmony, and it becomes strange,
not only to common men of another nationality, but to
all who do not belong to the circle whose members have
accustomed themselves to certain forms of harmonisation.
So that music, like poetry, travels in a vicious circle.
Trivial and exclusive melodies, in order to make them attrac
tive, are laden with harmonic, rhythmic, and orchestral com
plications, and thus become yet more exclusive, and far
from being universal are not even national, i.e. they are not
comprehensible to the whole people but only to some
people.

In music, besides marches and dances by various composers,
which satisfy the demands of universal art, one can indicate
very few works of this class : Bach's famous violin aria,
Chopin's nocturne in E flat major, and perhaps a dozen bits
(not whole pieces, but parts) selected from the works of
Haydn, Mozart, Schubert, Beethoven, and Chopin.1

Although in painting the same thing is repeated as in
poetry and in music, — namely, that in order to make them
more interesting, works weak in conception are surrounded
by minutely studied accessories of time and place, which
give them a temporary and local interest but make them

1 While offering as examples of art those that seem to me the best,
I attach no special importance to my selection ; for, besides being
insufficiently informed in all branches of art, I belong to the class
of people whose taste has, by false training, been perverted. And
therefore my old, inured habits may cause me to err, and I may
mistake for absolute merit the impression a work produced on me in
my youth. My only purpose in mentioning examples of works of this
or that class is to make my meaning clearer, and to show how,
with my present views, I understand excellence in art in relation
to its subject-matter. I must, moreover, mention that I consign my
own artistic productions to the category of bad art, excepting the
story God sees tliz Truth, which seeks a place in the first class, and
The Prisoner of the Caucasus, which belongs to the second.

WHAT IS ART? 171

less universal,— still, in painting, more than in the other
spheres of art, may be found works satisfying the demands
of universal Christian art; that is to say, there are more
works expressing feelings in which all men may participate.

In the arts of painting and sculpture, all pictures and
statues in so-called genre style, depictions of animals,
landscapes and caricatures with subjects comprehensible
to everyone, and also all kinds of ornaments, are universal
in subject-matter. Such productions in painting and
sculpture are very numerous (e.0. china dolls), but for
the most part such objects (for instance, ornaments of all
kinds) are either not considered to be art or are. con
sidered to be art of a low quality. In reality all such
objects, if only they transmit a true feeling experienced
by the artist and comprehensible to everyone (however
insignificant it may seem to us to be) are works of real,
good, Christian art.

I fear it will here be urged against me that having denied
that the conception of beauty can supply a standard for
works of art, I contradict myself by acknowledging orna
ments to be works of good art. The reproach is unjust, for
the subject-matter of all kinds of ornamentation consists not
in the beauty, but in the feeling (of admiration of, and
delight in, the combination of lines and colours) which the
artist has experienced and with which he infects the
spectator. Art remains what it was and what it must be :
nothing but the infection by one man of another, or of
others, with the feelings experienced by the infectur.
Among those feelings is the feeling of delight at what
pleases the sight. Objects pleasing the sight may be such
as please a small or a large number of people, or such as
please all men. And ornaments for the most part are of
the latter kind. A landscape representing a very unusual
view, or a genre picture of a special subject, may not
please everyone, but ornaments, from Yakutsk ornaments to

1 72 WHAT IS ART?

Greek ones, are intelligible to everyone and evoke a similar
feeling of admiration in all, and therefore this despised
kind of art should, in Christian society, be esteemed far
above exceptional, pretentious pictures and sculptures.
So that there are only two kinds of good Christian art :

• all the rest of art not comprised in these two divisions
should be acknowledged to be bad art, deserving not to be
encouraged but to be driven out, denied and despised, as

Nbeing art not uniting but dividing people. Such, in literary
art, are all novels and poems which transmit Church or
patriotic feelings, and also exclusive feelings pertaining only
to the class of the idle rich; such as aristocratic honour,
satiety, spleen, pessimism, and refined and vicious feelings
flowing from sex-love — quite incomprehensible to the great
majority of mankind.

In painting we must similarly place in the class of bad
art all the Church, patriotic, and exclusive pictures; all
the pictures representing the amusements and allurements
of a rich and idle life ; all the so-called symbolic pictures, in
which the very meaning of the symbol is comprehensible
only to the people of a certain circle ; and, above all, pictures
with voluptuous subjects — all that odious female nudity
which fills all the exhibitions and galleries. And to this
class belongs almost all the chamber and opera music of our
times, — beginning especially from Beethoven (Schumann,
Berlioz, Liszt, Wagner), — by its subject-matter devoted to
the expression of feelings accessible only to people who
have developed in themselves an unhealthy, nervous irrita
tion evoked by this exclusive, artificial, and complex
music.

" What ! the Ninth Symphony not a good work of art ! "
I hear exclaimed by indignant voices.

And I reply : Most certainly it is not. All that I have
written I have written with the sole purpose of finding
a clear and reasonable criterion by which to judge the

WHAT IS ART? 173

merits of works of art. And this criterion, coinciding
with the indications of plain and sane sense, indubitably
shows me that that symphony by Beethoven is not a
good work of art. Of course, to people educated in the
adoration of certain productions and of their authors, to
people whose taste has been perverted just by being educated
in such adoration, the acknowledgment that such a cele
brated work is bad is amazing and strange. But how are
we to escape the indications of reason and of common sense ?
Beethoven's Ninth Symphony is considered a great work
of art. To verify its claim to be such, I must first ask myself
whether this work transmits the highest religious feeling?
I reply in the negative, for music in itself cannot transmit
those feelings ; and therefore I ask myself next, Since this
work does not belong to the highest kind of religious art,
has it the other characteristic of the good art of our time, —
the quality of uniting all men in one common feeling :
does it rank as Christian universal art 1 And again I have
no option but to reply in the negative ; for not only do I
not see how the feelings transmitted by this work could
unite people not specially trained to submit themselves to
its complex hypnotism, but I am unable to imagine to
myself a crowd of normal people who could understand
anything of this long, confused, and artificial production,
except short snatches which are lost in a sea of what is
incomprehensible. And therefore, whether I like it or not, I
am compelled to conclude that this work belongs to the
rank of bad art. It is curious to note in this connection,
that attached to the end of this very symphony is a poem
of Schiller's which (though somewhat obscurely) expresses
this very thought, namely, that feeling (Schiller speaks
only of the feeling of gladness) unites people and evokes
love in them. But though this poem is sung at the end of
the symphony, the music does not accord with the thought
expressed in the verses ; for the music is exclusive and does

174 WHAT IS ART'*

not unite all men, but unites only a few, dividing them of!
from the rest of mankind.

And, just in this same way, in all branches of art, many
and many works considered great by the upper classes of our
society will have to be judged. By this one sure criterion
we shall have to judge the celebrated Divine Comedy and
Jerusalem Delivered, and a great part of Shakespeare's and
Goethe's works, and in painting every representation of
miracles, including Raphael's " Transfiguration," etc.

Whatever the work may be and however it may have
been extolled, we have first to ask whether this work is one
of real art or a counterfeit. Having acknowledged, on the
basis of the indication of its infectiousness even to a small
class of people, that a certain production belongs to the
realm of art, it is necessary, on the basis of the indication
of its accessibility, to decide the next question, Does this
work belong to the category of bad, exclusive art, opposed
to religious perception, or to Christian art, uniting people!
And having acknowledged an article to belong to real
Christian art, we must then, according to whether it
transmits the feelings flowing from love to God and man,
or merely the simple feelings uniting all men, assign it a
place in the ranks of religious art or in those of universal art.
Only on the basis of such verification shall we find it
possible to select from the whole mass of what, in our
; society, claims to be art, those works which form real,
\ important, necessary spiritual food, and to separate them
from all the harmful and useless art, and from the counter
feits of art which surround us. Only on the basis of such
verification shall we be able to rid ourselves of the pernicious
results of harmful art, and to avail ourselves of that bene
ficent action which is the purpose of true and good art, and
which is indispensable for the spiritual life of man and of
humanity.

CHAPTER XVII

ART is one of two organs of human progress. By words man
interchanges thoughts, by the forms of art he interchanges
feelings, and this with all men, not only of the present
time, but also of the past and the future. It is natural to
human beings to employ both these organs of intercom
munication, and therefore the perversion of either of them
must cause evil results to the society in which it occurs.
And these results will be of two kinds : first, the absence,
in that society, of the work which should be performed by
the organ ; and secondly, the harmful activity of the per
verted organ. And just these results have shown them
selves in our society. The organ of art has been perverted,
and therefore the upper classes of society have, to a great
extent, been deprived of the work that it should have
performed. The diffusion in our society of enormous
quantities of, on the one hand, those counterfeits of art
which only serve to amuse and corrupt people, arid, on
the other hand, of works of insignificant, exclusive art,
mistaken for the highest art, have perverted most men's
capacity to be infected by true works of art, and have
thus deprived them of the possibility of experiencing the
highest feelings to which mankind has attained, and which
can only be transmitted from man to man by art.

All the best that has been done in art by man remains
strange to people who lack the capacity to be infected by
art, and is replaced either by spurious counterfeits of art
or by insignificant art, which they mistake for real art.

175

176 WHAT IS ART?

People of our time and of our society are delighted with
Baudelaires, Verlaines, More"ases, Ibsens, and Maeterlincks
in poetry ; with Monets, Manets, Puvis de Chavannes,
Burne- Joneses, Stucks, and Bocklins in painting; with
Wagners, Listzs, Kichard Strausses, in music ; and they
are no longer capable of comprehending either the highest
or the simplest art.

In the upper classes, in consequence of this loss of
capacity to be infected ^by works of art, people grow up, are
educated, and live, lacking the fertilising, improving influ
ence of art, and therefore not only do not advance towards
perfection, do not become kinder, but, on the contrary,
possessing highly-developed external means of civilisation,
they yet tend to become continually more savage, more
coarse, and more cruel.

Such is the result of the absence from our society of the
activity of that essential organ — art. But the consequences
of the perverted activity of that organ are yet more harmful.
And they are numerous.

The first consequence, plain for all to see, is the enormous
expenditure of the labour of working people on things which
are not only useless, but which, for the most part, are harm
ful ; and more than that, the waste of priceless human lives
on this unnecessary and harmful business. It is terrible to
consider with what intensity, and amid what privations,
millions of people — who lack time and opportunity to attend
to what they and their families urgently require — labour
for 10, 12, or 14 hours on end, and even at night, setting
the type for pseudo-artistic books which spread vice among
mankind, or working for theatres, concerts, exhibitions, and
picture galleries, which, for the most part, also serve vice J
but it is yet more terrible to reflect that lively, kindly
children, capable of all that is good, are devoted from their
early years to such tasks as these: that for 6, 8, or 10
hours a day, and for 10 or 15 years, some of them should

WHAT IS ART? 177

play scales and exorcises ; others should twist their limbs,
walk on their toes, and lift their legs above their heads ;
a third set should sing solfeggios ; a fourth set, showing
themselves off in all manner of ways, should pronounce
verses ; a fifth set should draw from busts or from nude
models and paint studies ; a sixth set should write compo
sitions according to the rules of certain periods ; and that
in these occupations, unworthy of a human being, which are
often continued long after full maturity, they should waste
their physical and mental strength and lose all perception
of the meaning of life. It is often said that it is horrible
and pitiful to see little acrobats putting their legs over
their necks, but it is not less pitiful to see children of 10
giving concerts, and it is still worse to see schoolboys of
10 who, as a preparation for literary work, have learnt by
heart the exceptions to the Latin grammar. These people not
only grow physically and mentally deformed, but also morally
deformed, and become incapable of doing anything really
needed by man. Occupying in society the role of amusers of
the rich, they lose their sense of human dignity, and develop
in themselves such a passion for public applause that they
are ahvays a prey to an inflated and unsatisfied vanity
which grows in them to diseased dimensions, and they ex
pend their mental strength in efforts to obtain satisfaction
for this passion. And what is most tragic of all is that
these people, who for the sake of art are spoilt for life,
not only do not render service to this art, but, on the
contrary, inflict the greatest harm on it. They are taught
in academies, schools, and conservatoires how to counterfeit
art, and by learning this they so pervert themselves that
they quite lose the capacity to produce works of real art,
and become purveyors of that counterfeit, or trivial, or
depraved art which floods our society. This is the first
obvious consequence of the perversion of the organ of
art.

178 WHAT IS ART?

The second consequence is that the productions of amuse-
nient-art, which are prepared in such terrific quantities by
the armies of professional artists, enable the rich people of
our times to live the lives they do, lives not only unnatural
but in contradiction to the humane principles these people
themselves profess. To live as do the rich, idle people,
especially the women, far from nature and from animals,
in artificial conditions, with muscles atrophied or inis-
developed by gymnastics, and with enfeebled vital energy
would be impossible were it not for what is called art —
for this occupation and amusement which hides from them
the meaninglessness of their lives, and saves them from
the dulness that oppresses them. Take from all these
people the theatres, concerts, exhibitions, piano - playing,
songs, and novels, with which they now fill their time
in full confidence that occupation with these things is
a very refined, sesthetical, and therefore good occupation;
take from the patrons of art who buy pictures, assist
musicians, and are acquainted with writers, their role of
protectors of that important matter art, and they will
not be able to continue such a life, but will all be eaten
up by ennui and spleen, and will become conscious of
the meaninglessness and wrongness of their present mode
of life. Only occupation with what, among them, is con
sidered art, renders it possible for them to continue to
live on, infringing all natural conditions, without per
ceiving the emptiness and cruelty of their lives. And this
support afforded to the false manner of life pursued by
the rich is the second consequence, and a serious one, of
the perversion of art.

The third consequence of the perversion of art is the
perplexity produced in the minds of children and of plain
folk. . Among people not perverted by the false theories
of our society, among workers and children, there exists a
very definite conception of what people may be respected

WHAT IS ART? 179

and praised for. In the minds of peasants and children
the ground for praise or eulogy can only be either physical
strength : Hercules, the heroes and conquerors ; or moral,
spiritual, strength : Sakya Muni giving up a beautiful wife
and a kingdom to save mankind, Christ going to the
cross for the truth he professed, and all the martyrs
and the saints. Both are understood by peasants and
children. They understand that physical strength must be
respected, for it compels respect ; and the moral strength
of goodness an unperverted man cannot fail to respect,
because all his spiritual being draws him towards it. But
these people, children and peasants, suddenly perceive that
besides those praised, respected, and rewarded for physical or
moral strength, there are others who are praised, extolled,
and rewarded much more than the heroes of strength and
virtue, merely because they sing well, compose verses, or
dance. They see that singers, composers, painters, ballet-
dancers, earn millions of roubles and receive more honour
than the saints do : and peasants and children are per
plexed.

When 50 years had elapsed after Pushkin's death, and,
simultaneously, the cheap edition of his works began to
circulate among the people and a monument was erected to
him in Moscow, I received more than a dozen letters from
different peasants asking why Pushkin was raised to such
dignity ? And only the other day a literate l man from
Saratoff called on me who had evidently gone out of his
mind over this very question. He was on his way to
Moscow to expose the clergy for having taken part in
raising a "monament" to Mr. Pushkin.

Indeed one need only imagine to oneself what the state of

1 In Russian it is customary to make a distinction between literate
and illiterate people, i.e. between those who can and those who can
not read. Literate in this sense does not imply that the man would
speak or write correctly. — Trans.

i8o WHAT IS ART?

mind of such a man of the people must be when he learns,
from such rumours and newspapers as reach him, that the
clergy, the Government officials, and all the best people in
Russia are triumphantly unveiling a statue to a great man,
the benefactor, the pride of Russia — Pushkin, of whom till
then he had never heard. From all sides ho reads or hears
about this, and he naturally supposes that if such honours
are rendered to anyone, then without doubt he must have
done something extraordinary — either some feat of strength
or of goodness. He tries to learn who Pushkin was, and
having discovered that Pushkin was neither a hero nor a
general, but was a private person and a writer, he comes to
the conclusion that Pushkin must have been a holy man
and a teacher of goodness, and he hastens to read or to hear
his life and works. But what must be his perplexity when
he learns that Pushkin was a man of more than easy
morals, who was killed in a duel, i.e. when attempting
to murder another man, and that all his service consisted
in writing verses about love, which were often very
indecent.

That a hero, or Alexander the Great, or Genghis Khan, or
Napoleon were great, he understands, because any one of them
could have crushed him and a thousand like him ; that
Buddha, Socrates, and Christ were great he also understands,
for he knows and feels that he and all men should be such
as they were ; but why a man should be great because he
wrote verses about the love of women he cannot make out.

A similar perplexity must trouble the brain of a Breton
or Norman peasant who hears that a monument, " une
statue " (as to the Madonna), is being erected to Baudelaire,
and reads, or is told, what the contents of his Fleurs du Mai
are ; or, more amazing still, to Yerlaine, when he learns the
story of that man's wretched, vicious life, and reads his
verses. And what confusion it must cause in the brains
of peasants when they learn that some Patti or Taglioni

WHAT IS ART? 181

is paid £10,000 for a season, or that a painter gets as
much for a picture, or that authors of novels describing
love-scenes have received even more than that.

And it is the same with children. I remember how I
passed through this stage of amazement and stupefaction,
and only reconciled myself to this exaltation of artists
to the level of heroes and saints by lowering in my own
estimation the importance of moral excellence, and by
attributing a false, unnatural meaning to works of art. And
a similar confusion must occur in the soul of each child
and each man of the people when he learns of the strange
honours and rewards that are lavished on artists. This is
the third consequence of the false relation in which our
society stands towards art.

The fourth consequence is that people of the upper
classes, more and more frequently encountering the contra
dictions between beauty and goodness, put the ideal of
beauty first, thus freeing themselves from the demands
of morality. These people, reversing the roles, instead of
admitting, as is really the case, that the art they serve is
an antiquated affair, allege that morality is an antiquated
affair, which can have no importance for people situated on
that high plane of development on which they opine that
they are situated.

This result of the false relation to art showed itself in
our society long ago ; but recently, with its prophet Nietzsche
and his adherents, and with the decadents and certain
English aesthetes who coincide with him, it is being
expressed with especial impudence. The decadents, and
aesthetes of the type at one time represented by Oscar Wilde,
select as a theme for their productions the denial of morality
and the laudation of vice.

This art has partly generated, and partly coincides with,
a similar philosophic theory. I recently received from
America a book entitled " The Survival of the Fittest :

1 82 WHAT IS ART?

Philosophy of Power, 1896, by Ragnar Redbeard, Chicago."
The substance of this book, as it is expressed in the editor's
preface, is that to measure " right " by the false philosophy
of the Hebrew prophets and " weepful " Messiahs is mad
ness. Right is not the offspring of doctrine but of power.
All laws, commandments, or doctrines as to not doing to
another Avhat you do not wish done to you, have no
inherent authority whatever, but receive it only from
the club} the gallows, and the sword. A man truly free
is under no obligation to obey any injunction, human or
divine. Obedience is the sign of the degenerate.) Dis
obedience is the stamp of the hero. Men should not be
bound by moral rules invented by their foes. The whole
world is a slippery battlefield. Ideal justice demands
that the vanquished should be exploited, emasculated, and
scorned. The free and brave may seize the world. And,
therefore, there should be eternal war for life, for land,
for love, for women, for power, and for gold. (Something
similar was said a few years ago by the celebrated and
refined academician, Vogue*. ) The earth and its treasures is
" booty for the bold. "V>

The author has evidently by himself, independently of
Nietzsche, come to the same conclusions which are professed
by the new artists.

Expressed in the form of a doctrine these positions startle
us. In reality they are implied in the ideal of art serving
beauty. The art of our upper classes has educated people
in this ideal of the over-man,1 — which is, in reality, the
old ideal of Nero, Stenka Razin,2 Genghis Khan, Robert

1 The over-man (Uebermensch), in the Nietzschean philosophy, is
that superior type of man whom the struggle for existence is to evolve,
and who will seek only his own power and pleasure, will know nothing
of pity, and will have the right, because he will possess the power, to
make ordinary people serve him. — Trans.

2 Stenka Razin was by origin a common Cossack. His brother was

WHAT IS ART? 183

Macaire,1 or Napoleon, and all their accomplices, assist
ants, and adulators — and it supports this ideal with all its
might.

It is this supplanting of the ideal of what is right by
the ideal of what is beautiful, i.e. of what is pleasant,
that is the fourth consequence, and a terrible one, of
the perversion of art in our society. It is fearful to
think of what would befall humanity were such art to
spread among the masses of the people. And it already
begins to spread.

Finally, the fifth and chief result is, that the art which
nourishes in the upper classes of European society has a
directly vitiating influence, infecting people with the worst
feelings and with those most harmful to humanity — supersti
tion, patriotism, and, above all, sensuality.

Look carefully into the causes of the ignorance of the
masses, and you may see that the chief cause does not at all
lie in the lack of schools and libraries, as we are accustomed
to suppose, but in those superstitions, both ecclesiastical
and patriotic, with which the people are saturated, and
which are unceasingly generated by all the methods of art.
Church superstitions are supported and produced by the

hung for a breach of military discipline, and to this event Stenka
Razin's hatred of the governing classes has been attributed. He
formed a robber band, and subsequently headed a formidable re
bellion, declaring himself in favour of freedom for the serfs, religious
toleration, and the abolition of taxes. Like the Government lie
opposed, he relied on force, and, though he used it largely in defence
of the poor against the rich, he still held to

" The good old rule, the simple plan,
That they should take who have the power.
And they should keep who can."

Like Robin Hood he is favourably treated in popular legends. —
Trans.

1 Robert Macaire is a modern type of adroit and audacious rascality.
He was the hero of a popular play produced in Paris in 1834.— Trans.

1 84 } WHAT IS ART?

poetry of prayers, hymns, painting, by the sculpture of
images and of statues, by singing, by organs, by music, by
architecture, and even by dramatic art in religious ceremonies.
Patriotic superstitions are supported and produced by verses
and stories, which are supplied even in schools, by music,
by songs, by triumphal processions, by royal meetings, by
martial pictures, and by monuments.

Were it not for this continual activity in all departments
of art, perpetuating the ecclesiastical and patriotic intoxica
tion and embitterment of the people, the masses would
long ere this have attained to true enlightenment.

But it is not only in Church matters and patriotic
matters that art depraves ; it is art in our time that serves
as the chief cause of the perversion of people in the most
important question of social life — in their sexual relations.
We nearly all know by our own experience, and those who
are fathers and mothers know in the case of their grown-up
children also, what fearful mental and physical suffering,
what useless waste of strength, people suffer merely as a
consequence of dissoluteness in sexual desire.

Since the world began, since the Trojan war, which
sprang from that same sexual dissoluteness, down to and
including the suicides and murders of lovers described in
almost every newspaper, a great proportion of the sufferings
of the human race have come from this source.

And what is art doing ? All art, real and counterfeit, with
very few exceptions, is devoted to describing, depicting, and
inflaming sexual love in every shape and form. When one
remembers all those novels and their lust-kindling descrip
tions of love, from the most refined to the grossest, with
which the literature of our society overflows; if one. only
remembers all those pictures and statues representing
women's naked bodies, and all sorts of abominations which
are reproduced in illustrations and advertisements ; if one
only remembers all the filthy operas and operettas, songs

WHAT IS ART? 185

and romances with which our world teems, involuntarily
it seems as if existing art had but one definite aim — to
disseminate vice as widely as possible.

Such, though not all, are the most direct consequences of
that perversion of art which has occurred in our society.
So that, what in our society is called art not only does not
conduce to the progress of mankind, but, more than almost
anything else, hinders the attainment of goodness in our
lives.

And therefore the question which involuntarily presents
itself to every man free from artistic activity and therefore
not bound to existing art by self-interest, the question
asked by me at the beginning of this work : Is it just that
to what we call art, to a something belonging to but a small
section of society, should be offered up such sacrifices of
human labour, of human lives, and of goodness as are now
being offered up ? receives the natural reply : No j it is un
just, and these things should not be ! So also replies sound
sense and unperverted moral feeling. Not only should
these things not be, not only should no sacrifices be offered
up to what among us is called art, but, on the contrary,
the efforts of those who wish to live rightly should be
directed towards the destruction of this art, for it is one
of the most cruel of the evils that harass our section of
humanity. So that, were the question put : Would it be
preferable for our Christian world to be deprived of all
that is now esteemed to be art, and, together with the
false, to lose all that is good in it? I think that every
reasonable and moral man would again decide the question
as Plato decided it for his Republic, and as all the Church
Christian and Mahommedan teachers of mankind decided
it, i.e. would say, "Rather let there be no art at all than <•—
continue the depraving art, or simulation of art, which now
exists." Happily, no one has to face this question, and no
one need adopt either solution. All that man can do, and

i86 WHAT IS ART?

that we — the so-called educated people, who are so placed
that we have the possibility of understanding the meaning
of the phenomena of our life — can and should do, is to
understand the error) we are involved in, and not harden our
hearts in it but seek for a way of escape.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE cause of the lie into which the art of our society has
fallen was that people of the upper classes, having ceased
to believe in the Church teaching (called Christian), did not
resolve to accept true Christian teaching in its real and
fundamental principles of sonship to God and brotherhood
to man, but continued to live on without any belief, en
deavouring to make up for the absence of belief — some by
hypocrisy, pretending still to believe in the nonsense of the
Church creeds ; others by boldly asserting their disbelief ;
others by refined agnosticism ; and others, again, by return
ing to the Greek worship of beauty, proclaiming egotism to
be right, and elevating it to the rank of a religious doctrine.
The cause of the malady was the non-acceptance of Christ's
teaching in its real, i.e. its full, meaning. And the only cure
for the illness lies in acknowledging that teaching in its
full meaning. And such acknowledgment in our time is
not only possible but inevitable. Already to-day a man,
standing on the height of the knowledge of our age, whether
he be nominally a Catholic or a Protestant, cannot say that
he really believes in the dogmas of the Church: in God
being a Trinity, in Christ being God, in the scheme of
redemption, and so forth • nor can he satisfy himself by pro
claiming his unbelief or scepticism, nor by relapsing into
the worship of beauty and egotism. Above all, he can no
longer say that we do not know the real meaning of Christ's
teaching. That meaning has not only become accessible to
all men of our times, but the whole life of man to-day is

i88 WHAT IS ART?

permeated by the spirit of that teaching, and, consciously
or unconsciously, is guided by it.

However differently in form people belonging to our
Christian world may define the destiny of man; whether
they see it in human progress in whatever sense of the
words, in the union of all men in a socialistic realm, or
in the establishment of a commune ; whether they look
forward to the union of mankind under the guidance of
one universal Church, or to the federation of the world, —
however various in form their definitions of the destination
of human life may be, all men in our times already admit
that the highest well -being attainable by men is to be
reached by their union with one another.

However people of our upper classes (feeling that their
ascendency can only be maintained as long as they separate
themselves — the rich and learned — from the labourers, the
poor, and the unlearned) may seek to devise new conceptions
of life by which their privileges may be perpetuated, — now
the ideal of returning to antiquity, now mysticism, now
Hellenism, now the cult of the superior person (over
man-ism), — they have, willingly or unwillingly, to admit the
truth which is elucidating itself from all sides, voluntarily
and involuntarily, namely, that our welfare lies only in the
unification and the brotherhood of man.

Unconsciously this truth is confirmee! by the construction of
means of communication, — telegraphs, telephones, the press,
and the ever-increasing attainability of material well-being for
everyone, — and, consciously it is affirmed by the destruction
of ^superstitions which divide men, by the \diffusion of the
truths of knowledge,. and by the expression of the ideal of
the brotherhood of man in the best works of art of our time.

Art is a spiritual organ of human life which cannot be
destroyed, and therefore, notwithstanding all the efforts
made by people of the upper classes to conceal the religious
ideal by which humanity lives, that ideal is more and more

WHAT IS ART? 189

clearly recognised by man, and even in our perverted society
is more and more often partially expressed by science and
by art. During the present century works of the higher
kind of religious art have appeared more and more fre
quently, both in literature and in painting, permeated by a
truly Christian spirit, as also works of the universal art
of common life, accessible to all. So that even art knows
the true ideal of our times, and tends towards it. On
the one hand, the best works of art of our times transmit
religious feelings urging towards the union and the brother
hood of man (such are the works of Dickens, Hugo,
Dostoievsky; and in painting, of Millet, Bastien Lepage,
Jules Breton, L'Hermitte, and others) ; on the other hand,
they strive towards the transmission, not of feelings which
are natural to people of the upper classes only, but of such
feelings as may unite everyone without exception. There
are as yet few such works, but the need of them is already
acknowledged. In recent times we also meet more and more
frequently with attempts at publications, pictures, concerts,
and theatres for the people. All this is still very far from
accomplishing what should be done, but already the direction
in which good art instinctively presses forward to regain
the path natural to it can be discerned.

The religious perception of our time — which consists in
acknowledging that the aim of life (both collective and
individual) is the union of mankind — is already so suffi
ciently distinct that people have now only to reject the false
theory of beauty, according to which enjoyment is considered
to be the purpose of art, and religious perception will
naturally takes its place as the guide of the art of our time.

And as soon as the ''religious perception, which already
unconsciously directs the" life of man, is consciously acknow
ledged, then immediately and :iaturally the division of
art, into art for the lower and art for the upper classes,
will disappear. There Avill be one common, brotherly,

i go WHAT IS ART?

universal art ; and first, that art will naturally be rejected
which transmits feelings incompatible with the religious
perception of our time, — feelings which do not unite, but
divide men, — and then that insignificant, exclusive art will
be rejected to which an importance is now attached to which
it has no right.

And as soon as this occurs, art will immediately cease to
be, what it has been in recent times : a means of making
people coarser and more vicious, and it will become, what
it always used to be and should be, a means by which
humanity progresses towards unity and blessedness.

Strange as the comparison may sound, what has happened
to the art of our circle and time is what happens to a woman
who sells her womanly attractiveness, intended for maternity,
for the pleasure of those who desire such pleasures.

The art of our time and of our circle has become a (pros
titute; And this comparison holds good even in minute
details. Like her it is not limited to certain times, like her
it is always adorned, like her it is always saleable, ;and like
her it is enticing and ruinous.

A real work of art can only arise in the soul of an artist
occasionally, as the fruit of the life he has lived, just as a
child is" conceived by its mother. But counterfeit art is
produced by artisans and handicraftsmen continually, if only
consumers can be found.

Eeal art, like the wife of an affectionate husband, needs
no ornaments. But counterfeit art, like a prostitute, must
always be decked out.

The cause of the production of real art is the artist's inner
need to express a feeling that has accumulated, just as for a
mother the cause of sexual conception is Jove. The cause
of counterfeit art, as of prostitution, is gain.

The consequence of true art is the introduction of a new
feeling into the intercourse of life, as the consequence of a
wife's love is the birth of a new man into life.

WHAT IS ART ? 191

The consequences of counterfeit art are the perversion of
man, pleasure which never satisfies, and the weakening of
man's spiritual strength.

And this is what people of our day and of our circle
should understand, in order to avoid the filthy torrent of
depraved and prostituted art with which we are deluged.

CHAPTER XIX

PEOPLE talk of the art of the future, meaning by " art of
the future " some especially refined, new art, which, as they
imagine, will be developed out of that exclusive art of one
class which is now considered the highest art. But no such
new art of the future can or will be found. Our exclusive
art, that of the upper classes of Christendom, has found its
way into a blind alley. The direction in which it has been
going leads nowhere. Having once let go of that which is
most essential for art (namely, the guidance given by
^ \religious perception), that art has become ever more and
more exclusive, and therefore ever more and more perverted,
until, finally, it has come tojnothing. The art of the future,
that which is really coming, will not be a development of
present-day art, but will arise on completely other and ne^J
"\foundations^ having nothing in common with those by which
our present art of the upper classes is guided.

Art of the future, that is to say, such part of art as
will be chosen from among all the art diffused among man
kind, will consist, not in transmitting feelings accessible only
to members of the rich classes, as is the case to-day, but in
transmitting such feelings as embody the highest religious
perception of our times. Only those productions will be
considered art which transmit feelings drawing men together
in brotherly union, or such universal feelings as can unite all
,jmen. Only such art will be chosen, tolerated, approved, and
diffused. But a*t transmitting feelings flowing from anti
quated, worn-out religious teaching, — Church art, patriotic art,

192

WHAT IS ART? 193

voluptuous art, transmitting feelings of superstitious fear, of
pride, of vanity, of ecstatic admiration of national heroes, —
art exciting exclusive love of one's own people, or sensuality,
will be considered bad, harmful art, and will be censured and
despised by public opinion. All the rest of art, transmitting
feelings accessible only to a section of people, will be con
sidered unimportant, and will be neither blamed nor praised.
And the appraisement of art in general will devolve, not,
as is now the case, on a separate class of rich people, but on
the whole people ; so that for a work to be esteemed good,
and to be approved of and diffused, it will have to satisfy
the demands, not of a few people living in. identical and
often unnatural conditions, but it will have to satisfy the
demands of all those great masses of people who are
situated in the natural conditions of laborious life.

And the artists producing art will also not be, as now,
merely a few people selected from a small section of the
nation, members of the upper classes or their hangers-on,
but will consist of all those gifted members of the whole
people who prove capable of, and are inclined towards,
artistic activity.

Artistic activity will then be accessible to all men. It
will become accessible to the whole people, because, in
the first place, in the art of the future, not only will that
complex technique, which deforms the productions of the
art of to-day and requires so great an effort and expenditure
of time, not be demanded, but, on the contrary, the demand
will be for clearness, simplicity, and brevity — conditions
mastered not by mechanical exercises but by the education of
taste. And secondly, artistic activity will become accessible
to all men of the people because, instead of the present
professional schools which only some can enter, all \vili
learn music and depictive art (singing and drawing) equally
with letters in the elementary schools, and in such a way
that every man, having received the first principles of draw-

194 WHAT IS ART?

ing and music, and feeling a capacity for, and a call to, one
or other of the arts, will be able to perfect himself in it.

People think that if there are no special art-schools the
technique of art will deteriorate. Undoubtedly, if by
technique we understand those complications of art which
are now considered an excellence, it will deteriorate ; but if
by technique is understood clearness, beauty, simplicity,
and compression in works of art, then, even if the elements
of drawing and music were not to be taught in the national
schools, the technique will not only not deteriorate, but,
as is shown by all peasant art, will be a hundred times
better. It will be improved, because all the artists of
genius now hidden among the masses will become pro
ducers of art and will give models of excellence, whicli
(as has always been the case) will be the best schools of
technique for their successors. For every true artist, even
now, learns his technique, chiefly, not in the schools but in
life, from the examples of the great masters ; then — when
the producers of art will be the best artists of the whole
nation, and there will be more such examples, and they
will be more accessible — such part of the school training as
the future artist will lose will be a hundredfold compen
sated for by the training he will receive from the numerous
examples of good art diffused in society.

Such will be one difference between present and future
art. Another difference will be that art will not be pro
duced by professional artists receiving payment for their
work and engaged on nothing else besides their art. The
art of the future will be produced by all the members of
the community who feel the need of such activity, but they
will occupy themselves with art only when they feel such
need.

In our society people think that an artist will .work
better, and produce more, if he has a secured maintenance.
And this opinion would serve once more to show clearly,

WHAT IS ART? 195

were such demonstration still needed, that what among
us is considered art is not art, but only its counterfeit. It
is quite true that for the production of boots or loaves
division of labour is very advantageous, and that the
bootmaker or baker who need not prepare his own dinner
or fetch his own fuel will make more boots or loaves
than if he had to busy himself about these matters. But
art is not a handicraft ; it is the transmission of feeling
the artist has experienced. And sound feeling can only be
engendered in a man when he is living on all its sides the
life natural and proper to mankind. And therefore security
of maintenance is a condition most harmful to an artist's
true productiveness, since it removes him from the condition
natural to all men, — that of struggle with nature for the
maintenance of both his own life and that of others, —
and thus deprives him of opportunity and possibility to
experience the most important and natural feelings of man.
There is no position more injurious to an artist's productive
ness than that position of complete security and luxury in
which artists usually live in our society.

The artist of the future will live the common life of man,
earning his subsistence by some kind of labour. The fruits
of that highest spiritual strength which passes through him
he will try to share with the greatest possible number of
people, for in such transmission to others of the feelings
that have arisen in him he will find his happiness and
his reward. The artist of the future will be unable to
understand how an artist, whose chief delight is in the
wide diffusion of his works, could give them only in
exchange for a certain payment.

Until the dealers are driven out, the temple of art will
not be a temple. But the art of the future will drive them
out.

And therefore the subject-matter of the art of the future, as
I imagine it to myself, will be totally unlike that of to-day.

196 WHAT IS ART?

It will consist, not in the expression of exclusive feel
ings : pride, spleen, satiety, and all possible forms of volup
tuousness, available and interesting only to people who,
by force, have freed themselves from the labour natural to
human beings ; but it will consist in the expression of feel
ings experienced by a man living the life natural to all
men and flowing from the religious perception of our times,
or of such feelings as are open to all men without exception.

To people of our circle who do not know, and cannot or
will not understand the feelings which will form the subject-
matter of the art of the future, such subject-matter appears
very poor in comparison with those subtleties of exclusive
art with which they are now occupied. " What is there
fresh to be said in the sphere of the Christian feeling of
love of one's fellow-man1? The feelings common to
everyone are so insignificant and monotonous," think they.
And yet, in our time, the really fresh feelings can only be
religious, Christian feelings, and such as are open, accessible, to
all. The feelings flowing from the religious perception of our
times, Christian feelings, are infinitely new and varied, only
not in the sense some people imagine, — not that they can
be evoked by the depiction of Christ and of Gospel episodes,
or by repeating in new forms the Christian truths of unity,
brotherhood, equality, and love, — but in that all the oldest,
commonest, and most hackneyed phenomena of life evoke
the newest, most unexpected and touching emotions as soon
as a man regards them from the Christian point of view.

What can be older than the relations between married
couples, of parents to children, of children to parents ; the
relations of men to their fellow-countrymen and to for
eigners, to an invasion, to defence, to property, to the land,
or to animals 1 But as soon as a man regards these matters
from the Christian point of view, endlessly varied,' fresh,
complex, and strong emotions immediately arise.

And, in the same way, that realm of subject-matter for

WHA7 IS ART? 197

the art of the future which relates to the simplest
feelings of common life open to all will not be narrowed
but widened. In our former art only the expression of
feelings natural to people of a certain exceptional position
was considered worthy of being transmitted by art, and
even then only on condition that these feelings were trans
mitted in a most refined manner, incomprehensible to the
majority of men; all the immense realm of folk-art, and
children's art — jests, proverbs, riddles, songs, dances,
children's games, and mimicry — was not esteemed a domain
worthy of art.

The artist of the future wrill understand that to compose
a fairy-tale, a little song which will touch, a lullaby or a
riddle which will entertain, a jest which will amuse, or to
draw a sketch \vhich will delight dozens of generations
or millions of children and adults, is incomparably more
important and more fruitful than to compose a novel or
a symphony, or paint a picture which will divert some
members of the wealthy classes for a short time, and then
be for ever forgotten. The region of this art of the simple
feelings accessible to all is enormous, and it is as yet almost
untouched.

The art of the future, therefore, will not be poorer, but
infinitely richer in subject-matter. And the form of the art of
the future will also not be inferior to the present forms of art,
but infinitely superior to them. Superior, not in the sense
of having a refined and complex technique, but in the
sense of the capacity briefly, simply, and clearly to transmit,
without any superfluities, the feeling which the artist has
experienced and wishes to transmit.

I remember once speaking to a famous astronomer who
had given public lectures on the spectrum analysis of the
stars of the Milky Way, and saying it would be a good thing
if, with his knowledge and masterly delivery, he would give
a lecture merely on the formation and movements of the

198 WffA T IS ART ?

earth, for certainly there were many people at his lecture
on the spectrum analysis of the stars of the Milky Way,
especially among the women, who did not well know why
night follows day and summer follows winter. The wise
astronomer smiled as he answered, " Yes, it would be a
good thing, but it would be very difficult. To lecture on
the spectrum analysis of the Milky Way is far easier."

And so it is in art. To write a rhymed poem dealing
with the times of Cleopatra, or paint a picture of Xero
burning Rome, or compose a symphony in the manner of
Brahms or Richard Strauss, or an opera like Wagner's, is
far easier than to >tell a simple story without any unneces
sary details, yet so that it should transmit the feelings of
the narrator, or to draw a pencil-sketch which should
touch or amuse the beholder, or to compose four bars
of clear and simple melody, without any accompaniment,
which should convey an impression and be remembered by
those who hear it.

" It is impossible for us, with our culture, to return to a
primitive state," say the artists of our time. " It is impos
sible for us now to write such stories as that of Joseph or
the Odyssey, to produce such statues as the Venus of Milo,
or to compose such music as the folk-songs."

And indeed, for the artists of our society and day, it is
impossible, but not for the future artist, who will be free
from, all the perversion of technical improvements hiding
the absence of subject-matter, and who, not being a profes
sional artist and receiving no payment for his activity, will
only produce art when he feels impelled to do so by an
irresistible inner impulse.

The art of the future will thus be completely distinct,
both in subject-matter and in form, from what is now called
art. The only subject-matter of the art of the future will
be either feelings drawing men towards union, or such as
already unite them ; and the forms of art will be such as

WHAT IS ART? 199

will be open to everyone. And therefore, the ideal of
excellence in the fmure will not be the exclusiveness of feel
ing, accessible only to some, but, on the contrary, its uni
versality. And not bulkiness, obscurity, and complexity of
form, as is now esteemed, but, on the contrary, brevity,
clearness, and simplicity of expression. Only when art has
attained to that, will art neither divert nor deprave men as
it does now, calling on them to expend their best strength
on it, but be what it should be — a vehicle wherewith
to transmit religious, Christian perception from the realm of
reason and intellect into that of feeling, and really drawing
people in actual life nearer to that perfection and unity
indicated to them by their religious perception.

CHAPTEE XX

THE CONCLUSION

I HAVE accomplished, to the best of my ability, this work
which has occupied me for 15 years, on a subject near to me
— that of art. By saying that this subject has occupied me
for 15 years, I do not mean that I have been writing this
book 15 years, but only that I began to write on art 15
years ago, thinking that when once I undertook the task I
should be able to accomplish it without a break. It proved,
however, that my views on the matter then were so far from
clear that I could not arrange them in a way that satis
fied me. From that time I have never ceased to think
on the subject, and I have recommenced to write on it 6
or 7 times ; but each time, after writing a considerable part
of it, I have found myself unable to bring the work to a
satisfactory conclusion, and have had to put it aside. Now
I have finished it; and however badly I may have per
formed the task, my hope is that my fundamental thought as
to the false direction the art of our society has taken and is
following, as to the reasons of this, and as to the real
destination of art, is correct, and that therefore my work
will not be without avail. But that this should come to
pass, and that art should really abandon its false path and
take the new direction, it is necessary that another equally
important human spiritual activity, — science, — in intimate
dependence on which art always rests, should abandon the
false path which it too, like art, is following.

200

WHAT IS ART? 201

Science and art are as closely bound together as the lungs
and the heart, so that if one organ is vitiated the other
cannot act rightly.

True science investigates and brings to human perception
such truths and such knowledge as the people of a given
time and society consider most important. Art transmits
these truths from the region of perception to the region of
emotion. Therefore, if the path chosen by science be false
so also will be the path taken by art. Science and art are like
a certain kind of barge with kedge-anchors which used to ply
on our rivers. Science, like the boats which took the anchors
up-stream and made them secure, gives direction to the
forward movement ; while art, like the windlass worked on
the barge to draw it towards the anchor, causes the actual
progression. And thus a false activity of science inevitably
causes a correspondingly false activity of art.

As art in general is the transmission of every kind of
feeling, but in the limited sense of the word we only call
that art which transmits feelings acknowledged by us to be
important, so also science in general is the transmission of
all possible knowledge ; but in the limited sense of the word
we call science that which transmits knowledge acknow
ledged by us to be important.

And the degree of importance, both of the feelings trans
mitted by art and of the information transmitted by science,
is decided by the religious perception of the given time and
society, i.e. by the common understanding of the purpose
of their lives possessed by the people of that time or
society.

That which most of all contributes to the fulfilment of that
purpose will be studied most ; that which contributes less
will be studied less ; that which does not contribute at all
to the fulfilment of the purpose of human life will be entirely
neglected, or, if studied, such study will not be accounted
science. So it always has been, and so it should be now ;

202 WHAT IS ART?

for such is the nature of human knowledge and of human
life. But the science of the upper classes of our time, which
not only does not acknowledge any religion, but considers
every religion to be mere superstition, could not and cannot
make such distinctions.

Scientists of our day affirm that they study everything
impartially; but as everything is too much (is in fact an
infinite number of objects), and as it is impossible to study
all alike, this is only said in the theory, while in practice
not everything is studied, and study is applied far from
impartially, only that being studied which, on the one hand,
is most wanted by, and on the other hand, is pleasantest
to those people who occupy themselves with science. And
what the people, belonging to the upper classes, who are
occupying themselves with science most want is the main
tenance of the system under which those classes retain their
privileges ; and what is pleasantest are such things as satisfy
idle curiosity, do not demand great mental efforts, and can
be practically applied.

And therefore one side of science, including theology and
philosophy adapted to the existing order, as also history and
political economy of the same sort, are chiefly occupied in
proving that the existing order is the very one which ought
to exist ; that it has come into existence and continues to
exist by the operation of immutable laws not amenable to
human will, and that all efforts to change it are therefore
harmful and wrong. The other part, experimental science,
— including mathematics, astronomy, chemistry, physics,
botany, and all the natural sciences, — is exclusively occupied
with things that have no direct relation to human life :
with what is curious, and with things of which practical
application advantageous to people of the upper classes can
be made. And to justify that selection of objects of study
which (in conformity to their own position) the men of
science of our times have made, they have devised a theory

WHAT IS ART? 205

of science for science's sake, quite similar to the theory of
art for art's sake.

As by the theory of art for art's sake it appears that
occupation with all those things that please us — is art, so,
by the theory of science for science's sake, the study of
that which interests us — is science.

So that one side of science, instead of studying how people
should live in order to fulfil their mission in life, demon
strates the righteousness and immutability of the bad and
false arrangements of life which exist around us ; while the
other part, experimental science, occupies itself with ques
tions of simple curiosity or with technical improvements.

The first of these divisions of science is harmful, nob
only because it confuses people's perceptions and gives false'
decisions, but also because it exists, and occupies the ground
which should belong to true science. It does this harm,
that each man, in order to approach the study of the most
important questions of life, must first refute these erections
of lies which have during ages been piled around each of"
the most essential questions of human life, and which are
propped up by all the strength of human ingenuity.

The second division — the one of which modem science
is so particularly proud, and which is considered by many
people to be the only real science — is harmful in that it
diverts attention from the really important subjects to in
significant subjects, and is also directly harmful in that,
under the evil system of society which the first division of
science justifies and supports, a great part of the technical
gains of science are turned not to the advantage but to the
injury of mankind.

Indeed it is only to those who are devoting their lives to>
such study that it seems as if all the inventions which are
made in the sphere of natural science were very important
and useful things. And to these people it seems so only
when they do not look around them and do not see what is

204 WHAT IS ART?

really important. They only need tear themselves away
from the psychological microscope under which they ex
amine the objects of their study, and look about them, in
order to see how insignificant is all that has afforded them
such naive pride, all that knowledge not only of geometry
of n-dimensions, spectrum analysis of the Milky Way, the
form of atoms, dimensions of human skulls of the Stone Age,
and similar trifles, but even our knowledge of micro
organisms, X-rays, etc., in comparison with such knowledge
as we have thrown aside and handed over to the perver
sions of the professors of theology, jurisprudence, political
economy, financial science, etc. We need only look around
us to perceive that the activity proper to real science is
not the study of whatever happens to interest us, but the
study of how man's life should be established, — the study
of those questions of religion, morality, and social life,
without the solution of which all our knowledge of nature
will be harmful or insignificant.

We are highly delighted and very proud that our science
renders it possible to utilise the energy of a waterfall and
make it work in factories, or that we have pierced tunnels
through mountains, and so forth. But the pity of it is
that we make the force of the waterfall labour, not for
the benefit of the workmen, but to enrich capitalists who
produce articles of luxury or weapons of man-destroying
war. The same dynamite with which we blast the moun
tains to pierce tunnels, we use for wars, from which latter
we not only do not intend to abstain, but which we consider
inevitable, and for which we unceasingly prepare.

If we are now able to inoculate preventatively with
diphtheritic microbes, to find a needle in a body by means
of X-rays, to straighten a hunched-back, cure syphilis, and
perform wonderful operations, we should not be proud 'of
these acquisitions either (even were they all established
beyond dispute) if we fully understood the true purpose

WHAT IS ART? 205

of real science. If but one-tenth of the efforts now spent on
objects of pure curiosity or of merely practical application
were expended on real science organising the life of man,
more than half the people now sick would not have the
illnesses from which a small minority of them now get
cured in hospitals. There would be no poor-blooded and
deformed children growing up in factories, no death-rates,
as now, of 50 per cent, among children, no deterioration
of whole generations, no prostitution, no syphilis, and no
murdering of hundreds of thousands in wars, nor those
horrors of folly and of misery which our present science
considers a necessary condition of human life.

We have so perverted the conception of science that it
seems strange to men of our day to allude to sciences which
should prevent the mortality of children, prostitution,
syphilis, the deterioration of whole generations, and the
wholesale murder of men. It seems to us that science is
only then real science when a man in a laboratory pours
liquids from one jar into another, or analyses the spectrum,
or cuts up frogs and porpoises, or weaves in a specialised,
scientific jargon an obscure network of conventional
phrases — theological, philosophical, historical, juridical, or
politico-economical — semi-intelligible to the man himself, and
intended to demonstrate that what now is, is what should be.

But science, true science, — such science as would really
deserve the respect which is now claimed by the followers
of one (the least important) part of science, — is not at all such
as this : real science lies in knowing what we should and
what we should not believe, in knowing how the associated
life of man should and should not be constituted ; how to
treat sexual relations, how to educate children, how to use
the land, how to 'cultivate it oneself without oppressing
other people, how to treat foreigners, how to treat animals,
and much more that is important for the life of man.

Such has true science ever been and such it should be.

206 WHAT IS ART?

And such science is springing up in our times; but, on
the one hand, such true science is denied and refuted by
all those scientific people who defend the existing order
of society, and, on the other hand, it is considered empty,
unnecessary, unscientific science by those who are engrossed
in experimental science.

For instance, books and sermons appear, demonstrating
the antiquatedness and absurdity of Church dogmas, as well
as the necessity of establishing a reasonable religious percep
tion suitable to our times, and all the theology that is con
sidered to be real science is only engaged in refuting these
works and in exercising human intelligence again and again
to find support and justification for superstitions long since
out-lived, and which have now become quite meaningless. Or
a sermon appears showing that land should not be an object
of private possession, and that the institution of private?
property in land is a chief cause of the poverty of the
masses. Apparently science, real science, should welcome
such a sermon and draw further deductions from this posi
tion. But the science of our times does nothing of the
kind : on the contrary, political economy demonstrates the
opposite position, namely, that landed property, like every
other form of property, must be more and more concentrated
in the hands of a small number of owners. Again, in the
same way, one would suppose it to be the business of real
science to demonstrate the irrationality, unprofitableness, and
immorality of war and of executions; or the inhumanity
and harmf ulness of prostitution ; or the absurdity, harmful-
ness, and immorality of using narcotics or of eating animals ;
or the irrationality, harmfulness, and antiquatedness of
patriotism. And such works exist, but are all considered
unscientific; while works to prove that all these things
ought to continue, and works intended to satisfy an idle
thirst for knowledge lacking any relation to human life, are
considered to be scientific.

WHAT IS ART? 207

The deviation of the science of our time from its true
purpose is strikingly illustrated by those ideals which are
put forward by some scientists, and are not denied, but
admitted, by the majority of scientific men.

These ideals are expressed not only in stupid, fashionable
books, describing the world as it will be in 1000 or 3000
years' time, but also by sociologists who consider themselves
serious men of science! These ideals are that food instead
of being obtained from the land by agriculture, will be pre
pared in laboratories by chemical means, and that human
labour will be almost entirely superseded by the utilisation
of natural forces.

Man will not, as now, eat an egg laid by a hen he has
kept, or bread grown on his field, or an apple from a tree he
has reared and which has blossomed and matured in his
sight ; but he will eat tasty, nutritious, food which will be
prepared in laboratories by the conjoint labour of many
people in which he will take a small part. Man will hardly
need to labour, so that all men will be able to yield to
idleness as the upper, ruling classes now yield to it.

Nothing shows more plainly than these ideals to what a
degree the science of our times has deviated from the true
path.

The great majority of men in our times lack good and
sufficient food (as well as dwellings and clothes and all the
first necessaries of life). And this great majority of men is
compelled, to the injury of its well-being, to labour con
tinually beyond its strength. Both these evils can easily be
removed by abolishing mutual strife, luxury, and the un
righteous distribution of wealth, in a word by the abolition
of a false and harmful order and the establishment of a
reasonable, human manner of life. But science considers the
existing order of things to be as immutable as the move
ments of the planets, and therefore assumes that the purpose
of science is — not to elucidate the falseness of this order and

2oS WHAT IS ART?

to arrange a new, reasonable way of life — but, under the
existing order of things, to feed everybody and enable all to be
as idle as the ruling classes, who live a depraved life, now are.

And, meanwhile, it is forgotten that nourishment with
corn, vegetables, and fruit raised from the soil by one's own
labour is the pleasantest, healthiest, easiest, and most natural
nourishment, and that the work of using one's muscles is as
necessary a condition of life as is the oxidation of the blood
by breathing.

To invent means whereby people might, while continuing
our false division of property and labour, be well nourished
by means of chemically-prepared food, and might make the
forces of nature work for them, is like inventing means to
pump oxygen into the lungs of a man kept in a closed
chamber the air of which is bad, when all that is needed is
to cease to confine the man in the closed chamber.

In the vegetable and animal kingdoms a laboratory for
the production of food has been arranged, such as can be
surpassed by no professors, and to enjoy the fruits of this
laboratory, and to participate in it, man has only to yield to
that ever joyful impulse to labour, without which man's
life is a torment. And lo and behold, the scientists of our
times, instead of employing all their strength to abolish what
ever hinders man from utilising the good things prepared for
him, acknowledge the conditions under which man is deprived
of these blessings to be unalterable, and instead of arranging
the life of man so that he might work joyfully and be fed
from the soil, they devise methods which will cause him to
become an artificial abortion. It is like not helping a man
out of confinement into the fresh air, but devising means,
instead, to pump into him the necessary quantity of oxygen
and arranging so that he may live in a stifling cellar instead
of living at home.

Such false ideals could not exist if science were not on a
false path.

WHAT IS ART? 209

And yet the feelings transmitted by art grow up on the
bases supplied by science.

But what feelings can such misdirected science evoke?
One side of this science evokes antiquated feelings, which
humanity has used up, and which, in our times, are bad and
exclusive. The other side, occupied with the study of sub
jects unrelated to the conduct of human life, by its very
nature cannot serve as a basis for art.

So that art in our times, to be art, must either open up its
own road independently of science, or must take direction
from the unrecognised science which is denounced by the
orthodox section of science. And this is what art, when
it even partially fulfils its mission, is doing.

It is to be hoped that the work I have tried to perform
concerning art will be performed also for science — that the
falseness of the theory of science for science's sake will be
demonstrated; that the necessity of acknowledging Chris
tian teaching in its true meaning will be clearly shown,
that on the basis of that teaching a reappraisement will
be made of the knowledge we possess, arid of which we
are so proud ; that the secondariness and insignificance of
experimental science, and the primacy and importance of
religious, moral, and social knowledge will be established ;
and that such knowledge will not, as now, be left to the guid
ance of the upper classes only, but will form a chief interest
of all free, truth-loving men, such as those who, not in agree
ment with the upper classes but in their despite, have
always forwarded the real science of life.

Astronomical, physical, chemical, and biological science,
as also technical and medical science, will be studied only in
so far as they can help to free mankind from religious,
juridical, or social deceptions, or can serve to promote the
well-being of all men, and not of any single class.

Only then will science cease to be what it is now— on the
one hand a system of sophistries, needed for the maintenance
14

210 WHAT IS ART?

of the existing worn-out order of society, and, on the other
hand, a shapeless mass of miscellaneous knowledge, for the
most part good for little or nothing — and become a shapely
and organic whole, having a definite and reasonable pur
pose comprehensible to all men, namely, the purpose of
bringing to the consciousness of men the truths that flow
from the religious perception of our times.

And only then will art, which is always dependent on
science, be what it might and should be, an organ coequally
important with science for the life and progress of mankind.

Art is not a pleasure, a solace, or an amusement ; art is a
great matter. Art is an organ of human life, transmitting
man's reasonable perception into feeling. In our age the
common religious perception of men is the consciousness of
the brotherhood of man — we know that the well-being of
man lies in union with his fellow -men. True science
should indicate the various methods of applying this con
sciousness to life. Art should transform this perception
into feeling.

The task of art is enormous. Through the influence of
real art, aided by science guided by religion, that peace
ful co-operation of man which is now obtained by external
means — by our law-courts, police, charitable institutions,
factory inspection, etc. — should be obtained by man's free
and joyous activity. Art should cause violence to be set
aside.

And it is only art that can accomplish this.

All that now, independently of the fear of violence ano!
punishment, makes the social life of man possible (and
already now this is an enormous part of the order of our
lives) — all this has been brought about by art. If by art
it has been inculcated how people should treat religious
objects, their parents, their children, their wives, their
relations, strangers, foreigners; how to conduct themselves
to their elders, their superiors, to those who suffer, to-

WHAT IS ART? 211

their enemies, and to animals ; and if this h •••*
through generations by millions of people, not only un-
enforced by any violence, but so that the foi »$ of \
customs can be shaken in no way but by means of art :
then, by the same art, other customs, more in
with the religious perception of our time, may be e\ it
If art has been able to convey the sentiment of reverence
for images, for the eucharist, and for the king's person
of shame at betraying a comrade, devotion to a flag, the
necessity of revenge for an insult, the need to sacrifice one's
labour for the erection and adornment of churches, the
duty of defending one's honour or the glory of one's native
land — then that same art can also evoke reverence for the-
dignity of every man and for the life of every animal ; can
make men ashamed of luxury, of violence, of revenge, or of
using for their pleasure that of which others are in need \
can compel people freely, gladly, and without noticing it,,
to sacrifice themselves in the service of man.

The task for art to accomplish is to make that feeling
of brotherhood and love of one's neighbour, now attained
only by the best members of the society, the customary
feeling and the instinct of all men. By evoking, under
imaginary conditions, the feeling of brotherhood and love,,
religious art will train men to experience those same
feelings under similar circumstances in actual life ; it will
lay in the souls of men the rails along which the actions
of those whom art thus educates will naturally pass. And
universal art, by uniting the most different people in one
common feeling, by destroying separation, will educate
people to union, will show them, not by reason but by life
itself, the joy of universal union reaching beyond the bounds
set by life.

The destiny of art in our time is to transmit from the
realm of reason to the realm of feeling the truth that well-
being for men consists in being united together, and to set

212 WHAT IS ART?

up, in place of the existing reign of force, that kingdom of
God, i.e. of love, which we all recognise to be the highest
aim of human life.

Possibly, in the future, science may reveal to art yet
newer and higher ideals, which art may realise ; but, in our
time, the destiny of art is clear and definite. The task for
Christian art is to establish brotherly union among men.

APPENDICES

APPENDICES.

APPENDIX I.

This is the first page of Mallarm^'s book Divagations : — •
LE PH&NOM&NE FUTUR.

Un. ciel pale, sur le monde qui finit de decrepitude, va
peut-etre partir avec les images : les lambeaux de la pourpre
usee des couchants deteignent dans ime riviere dormant a
Fhorizon submerge de rayons et d'eau. Les arbres s'ennuient,
et, sous leur feuillage blanchi (de la poussiere du temps
plutot que celle des chemins) monte la maison en toile de
Montreur de choses Passees : maint ruverbere attend le
crepuscule et ravive les visages d'ime malheureuse foule,
vaincue par la maladie immortelle et le pe'che des siecles,
d'hommes pres de leurs chetives complices enceintes des
fruits miserables avec lesquels perira la terre. Dans le
silence inquiet de tous les yeux suppliant la-bas le soleil qui,
sous 1'eau, s'enfonce avec le desespoir d'un cri, voici le
simple boniment : "iSTulle enseigne ne vous regale du
spectacle interieur, car il n'est pas maintenant un peintre
capable d'en donner une ombre triste. J'apporte, vivante
(et preservee a travers les ans par la science souveraine) une
Femme d'autrefois. Quelque folie, originelle et naive, une
extase d'or, je ne sais quoi ! par elle nomme sa chevelure, se

2i 6 WHAT IS ART?

ploie avec la grace ties e'toffes autour d'un visage qu' eclaire
la nudito sanglante de ses levres. A la place du vetement
vain, elle a un corps ; et les yeux, semblables aux pierres
rares ! ne valent pas ce regard qui sort de sa chair heureuse :
des seins leves comme s'ils etaient pleins d'un lait eternel, la
pointe vers le ciel, les jambes lisses qui gardent le sel de la
me i1 premiere." Se rappelant leurs pauvres Spouses, chauves,
morbides et pleines d'horreur, les maris se pressent : elles
aussi par curiosite, melancoliques, veulent voir.

Quand tons auront cbntemple la noble creature, vestige
de quelque cpoque deja maudite, les uns indifferents, car ils
n'auront pas eu la force de comprendre, mais d'autres navres
et la paupiere humide de larmes resignees, se regarderont ;
tandis one les poetes de ces temps, sentant se rallumer leur
yeux eteints, s'achemineront vers leur lampe, le cerveau ivre
mi instant d'une gloire confuse, hantes du Ry thine et dans
1'oubli d'exister a une epoque qui survit a la beaute.

THE FUTURE PHEXOMENON—JK MALLAHME.

A pale sky, above the world that is ending through decrepitude,
going perhaps to pass away with the clouds : shreds of worn-out
purple of the sunsets wash off their colour in a river sleeping on the
horizon, submerged with rays and water. The trees are weary and,
beneath their foliage, whitened (by the dust of time rather than that
of the roads), rises the canvas house of "Showman of things Past."
Many a lamp awaits the gloaming and brightens the faces of a
miserable crowd vanquished by the immortal illness and the sin of
ages, of men by the sides of their puny accomplices pregnant with
the miserable fruit with which the world will perish.. In the anxious
silence of all the eyes supplicating the sun there, which sinks under
the water with the desperation of a cry, this is the plain announcement :
' ' No sign-board now regales you with the spectacle that is inside, for
there is no painter now capable of giving even a sad shadow of it. I
bring living (and preserved by sovereign science through the years) a
Woman of other days. Some kind of folly, naive and original, an
ecstasy of gold, I know not what, by her called her hair, clings with
the grace of some material round a face brightened by the blood-red
nudity of her lips. In place of vain clothing, she has a body ; and

WHAT IS ART? 217

her eyes, resembling precious stones ! arc not worth that look, which
comes from her happy flesh : breasts raised as if full of eternal milk,
the points towards the sky ; the smooth legs, that keep the salt of the
first sea." Remembering their poor spouses, bald, morbid, and full of
horrors, the husbands press forward : the women too, from curiosity,
gloomily wish to see.

When all shall have contemplated the noble creature, vestige of
some epoch already damned, some indifferently, for they will not have
had strength to understand, but others broken-hearted and with eye
lids wet with tears of resignation, will look at each other ; while the
poets of those times, feeling their dim eyes rekindled, will make their
way towards their lamp, their brain for an instant drunk with con
fused glory, haunted by Rhythm and forgetful that they exist at an
epoch which has survived beauty.

APPENDIX I I.

Xo. 1.

Tlie following verses are by Viele-Griffin, from page 28
of a volume of his Poems : —

OISEAU BLEU COULEUR DU TEMPS.

1.

Sait-tu 1'oubli
D'un vain doux rove,
Oiseau moquenr
De la foret?
Le jour palit,
La nuit se leve,
Et dans mon cceur
L 'ombre a pleure ;

2.

0 chante-moi

Ta folle garnme,

Car j'ai dormi

Ce jour durant;

Le lache emoi

Ou fut mon ame

Sanglote ennui

Le jour mourant . . .

3.

Sais-tu le chant
De sa parole
Et de sa voix,
Toi qui redis
Dans le couchant
Ton air frivole
Comme autrefois
Sous les midis ?

4.

O chante alors
La melodie
De son amour,
Mon fol espoir,
Parmi les ors
Et 1'incendie
Du vain doux jour
Qui meurt ce soir.
FRANCIS VIELE-GRIFFIN.

1 The translations in Appendices L, II., and IV., are by Louise
Maude. The aim of these renderings has been to keep as close to the
originals as the obscurity of meaning allowed. The sense (or absence
of sense) has therefore been more considered than the form of the

218

WHAT IS ART? 219

BLUE BIRD.

1. 3.

Canst thou forget, That music sweet,

In dreams so vain, Ah, do you know

Oh, mocking bird Her voice and speech?

Of forest deep ? Your airs so light

The day doth set, You who repeat

Night comes again, In sunset's glow,

My heart has heard As you sang, each,

The shadows weep ; At noonday's height.

2. 4.
Thy tones let flow Of my desire,

In maddening scale, My hope so bold,

For I have slept Her love — up, sing,

The livelong day ; Sing 'neath this light,

Emotions low This flaming fire,

In me now wail, And all the gold

My soul they've kept : The eve doth bring

Light dies away . . . Ere comes the night.

No. 2.

And here are some verses by the esteemed young poet
Verhaeren, which I also take from page 28 of his Works : —

ATTIRANCES.

Lointainement, et si etrangement pareils,

De grands masques d'argent que la brume recule,

Vaguent, au jour tombant, autour des vieux soleils.

Les doux lointaines ! — et comme, au fond du cropuscule,
Us nous lixent le creur, immensement le cceur,
Avec les yeux dcfunts de leur visage d'ame.

C'est toujours du silence, a nioins, dans la puleur
Du soir, un jet de feu sondain, un cri de flamme,
Un depart de lumiere inattendu vers Dieu.

220 WHAT IS ART?

On se laisse charmer et trembler de mysterc,
Et Ton dirait des morts qui taisent un adieu
Trop mystique, pour etre ecoute par la terre !

Sont-ils le souvenir materiel et clair

Des ephebes chretiens couches aux catacombes

Parmi les lys? Sont-ils leur regard et leur chair?

Ou seul, ce qui survit de merveilleux aux tombes
De ceux qui sont partis, vers leurs reves, un soir,
Conquerir la folie a 1'assaut des nuees ?

Lointainement, combien nous les sentons vouloir
Un peu d'amour pour leurs ceuvres destitutes,
Tour leur errance et leur tristesse aux horizons.

Toujours ! aux horizons du cceur et des pensues,
Alors que les vieux soirs eclatent en blasons
Soudains, pour les gloires noires et angoissees.

EMILE VERIIAEIIEX,
Poemes.

A TTRA CTIONS.

Large masks of silver, by mists drawn away,

So strangely alike, yet so far apart,

Float round the old suns when faileth the day.

They transfix our heart, so immensely our heart,
Those distances mild, in the twilight deep,
Looking out of dead faces with their spirit eyes.

All around is now silence, except when there leap
In the pallor of evening, with fiery cries,
Some fountains of flame that God-ward do fly.

Mysterious trouble and charms us enfold.

You might think that the dead spoke a silent good-bye,

Oh ! too mystical far on earth to be told !

/ VHA T IS A R T? 221

Are they the memories, material and bright,
Of the Christian youths that in catacombs sleep
'Mid the lilies ? Are they their flesh or their sight ?

Or the marvel alone that survives, in the deep,
Of those that, one night, returned to their dream
Of conquering folly by assaulting the skies ?

For their destitute works — we feel it seems,

For a little love their longing cries

From horizons far — for their errings and pain.

In horizons ever of heart and thought,
While the evenings old in bright blaze wane
Suddenly, for black glories anguish fraught.

Xo. 3.

And the following is a poem, by Moreas, evidently an
admirer of Greek beauty. It is from page 28 of a volume
of his Poems : —

ENONE AU GLAIR VISAGE.

Enone, j'avais cru qu'eii aimant ta beaute

Ou Fame avec le corps trouvent leur unite,

J'allais, m'affermissant et le coeur et 1'esprit,

Monter jusqu'a cela qui janiais lie perit,

N'ayant et£ cree, qui n'est froideur ou feu,

Qui n'est beau quelque part et laid en autre lieu ;

Et me flattais encor' d'une belle harmonic

Que j'eusse compose du meilleur et du pire,

Ainsi que le chanteur qui cherit Polimnie,

En accordant le grave avec 1'aigu, retire

Un son bien eleve sur les nerfs de sa lyre.

Mais mon courage, helas ! se pamant comme mort,

M'enseigna que le trait qui m'avait fait amant

JN"e fut pas de cet arc que courbe sans effort

La Venus qui naquit du male seulement,

WHAT IS ART?

Mais que j 'avals souffert cette Yunus derniere,

Qui a le coeur couard, ne d'une faible mere.

Et pourtant, ce mauvais gar§on, chasseur habile,

Qui charge son carquois de sagette subtile,

Qui secoue en riant sa torche, pour un jour,

Qui ne pose jamais que sur de tendres fleurs,

C'est sur un teint charmant qu'il essuie les pleurs,

Et c'est encore un Dieu, Enone, cet Amour.

Mais, laisse, les oiseaux du printemps sont partis,

Et je vois les rayons du soleil amortis.

Enone, ma douleur, harmonieux visage,

Superbe humilite, doux honnete langage,

Hier me remirant dans cet etang glace

Qui an bout du jardin se couvre de feuillage,

Sur ma face je vis que les jours ont passe.

JEAN MOR£AS.

ENONE.

Enone, in loving thy beauty, I thought,

"Where the soul and the body to union are brought,

That mounting by steadying my heart and my mind,

In that which can't perish, myself I should find.

For it ne'er was created, is not ugly and fair ;

Is not coldness in one part, while on fire it is there.

Yes, I flattered myself that a harmony fine

I'd succeed to compose of the worst and the best,

Like the bard who adores Polyhymnia divine,

And mingling sounds different from the nerves of his lyre..

From the grave and the smart draws melodies higher.

But, alas ! my courage, so faint and nigh spent,

The dart that has struck me proves without fail

Not to be from that bow which is easily bent

By the Venus that's born alone of the male.

No, 'twas that other Yenus that caused me to smart,

Born of frail mother with cowardly heart.

And yet that naughty lad, that little hunter bold,

Who laughs and shakes his flowery torch just for a day,,

Who never rests but upon tender flowers and gay,

WHAT IS ART? 223

On sweetest skin who dries the tears his eyes that fill,

Yet oh, Enone mine, a God's that Cupid still.

Let it pass ; for the birds of the Spring are away.

And dying I see the sun's lingering ray.

Enone, my sorrow, oh, harmonious face,

Humility grand, words of virtue and grace,

I looked yestere'en in the pond frozen fast,

Strewn with leaves at the end of the garden's fair space,

And I read in my face that those days are now past.

No. 4.

And this is also from page 28 of a thick book, full of
similar Poems, by M. Montesquieu.

BERCEUSE D'OMBRE.

Des formes, des formes, des formes
Blanche, bleue, et rose, et d'or
Descendront du haut des ormes
Sur 1'enfant qui se rendort.
Des formes !

Des plumes, des plumes, des plumes
Pour composer un doux nid.
Midi sonne : les enclumes
Cessent; la rumeur finit . . .
Des plumes !

Des roses, des roses, des roses
Pour embaumer son sommeil,
Vos petales sont moroses
Pros du sourire vermeil.
0 roses !

Des ailes, des ailes, des ailes
Pour bourdonner a son front,
Abeilles et demoiselles,
Des rythmes qui berceront.
Des ailes !

224 WHAT IS ART?

Des branches, des branches, des branches
Pour tresser un pavilion,
Par ou des elartes moms franches
Descendront sur 1'oisillon.
Des branches !

Des songes, des songes, des songcs
Dans ses pensers entr' ouverts
Glissez un peu de mensonges
A voir le vie au travers
Des songes !

Des fees, des fees, des fees,
Pour filer leurs echeveaux
Des mirages, de bouffees
Dans tous ces petits cerveaux.
Des fees.

Des anges, des aiiges, des anges
Pour emporter dans Tether
Les petits enfants etranges
Qui ne veulent pas rester . . .
Xos anges !

COMTE EGBERT DE MOXTESQUIOU-FEZEXSAC,
Les Hortensias Bleus.

THE SHADOW LULLABY.

Oh forms, oil forms, oh forms
White, blue, and gold, and red
Descending from the elm trees,
On sleeping baby's head.
Oh forms !

Oh feathers, feathers, feathers
To make a cosy nest.
Twelve striking : stops the clamour ;
The anvils are at rest . . .
Oh feathers !

WHAT IS ART? 225

Oh roses, roses, roses
To scent his sleep awhile,
Pale are your fragrant petals
Beside his ruby smile.

Oh roses !

Oil wings, oh wings, oh wings
01' bees and dragon-Hies,
To hum around his forehead,
And lull him with your sighs.
Oh wings !

Branches, branches, branches
A shady bower to twine,
Through which, oh daylight, faintly
Descend on birdie mine.
Branches !

Oh dreams, oh dreams, oh dreams
Into his opening mind,
Let in a little falsehood
With sights of life behind.
Dreams !

Oh fairies, fairies, fairies,
To twine and twist their threads
With puffs of phantom visions
Into these little heads.
Fairies !

Angels, angels, angels
To the ether far away,
Those children strange to carry
That here don't wish to stay . . .
Our angels !

APPENDIX III.

These are the contents of The Nilelunrfs Ring : —

The first part tells that the nymphs, the daughters of the
Rhine, for some reason guard gold in the Rhine, and sing :
Wcia, Waga, Woge du Welle, Walle zur Wiege, Wagala-
weia, Wallala, Weiala, Wcia, and so forth.

These singing nymphs are pursued by a gnome (a
nibelung) who desires to seize them. The gnome cannot
catch any of them. Then the nymphs guarding the gold
tell the gnome just what they ought to keep secret, namely,
that whoever renounces love will be able to steal the gold
they are guarding. And the gnome renounces love, and
steals the gold. This ends the first scene.

In the second scene a god and a goddess lie in a field in
sight of a castle which giants have built for them. Presently
they wake up and are pleased with the castle, and they
relate that in payment for this work they must give the
goddess Freia to the giants. The giants come for their pay.
But the god Wotan objects to parting with Freia. The
giants get angry. The gods hear that the gnome has stolen
the gold, promise to confiscate it and to pay the giants with
it. But the giants won't trust them, and seize the goddess
Freia in pledge.

The third scene takes place under ground. The gnome
Alberich, who stole the gold, for some reason beats a gnome,
Mime, and takes from him a helmet which has the power
both of making people invisible and of turning them into
other animals. The gods, Wotan and others, appear and

226

WHAT IS ART? 227

quarrel with one another and with the gnomes, and wish to
take the gold, but Alberich won't give it up, and (like every
body all through the piece) behaves in a way to ensure his
own ruin. He puts on the helmet, and becomes first a
dragon and then a toad. The gods catch the toad,
take the helmet off it, and carry Alberich away with
them.

Scene IV. The gods bring Alberich to their home, and
order him to command his gnomes to bring them all the
gold. The gnomes bring it. Alberich gives up the gold,
but keeps a magic ring. The gods take the ring. So
Alberich curses the ring, and says it is to bring misfortune
on anyone who has it. The giants appear ; they bring the
goddess Freia, and demand her ransom. They stick up
staves of Freia's height, and gold is poured in between these
staves : this is to be the ransom. There is not enough gold,
so the helmet is thrown in, and they also demand the ring.
"\Votan refuses to give it up, but the goddess Erda appears
and commands him to do so, because it brings misfortune.
Wotan gives it up. Freia is released. The giants, having
received the ring, fight, and one of them kills the other.
This ends the Prelude, and we come to the First Day.

The scene shows a house in a tree. Siegmund runs in
tired, and lies down. Sieglinda, the mistress of the house
(and wife of Hunding), gives him a drugged draught, and
they fall in love with each other. Sieglinda's husband
conies home, learns that Siegmund belongs to a hostile race,
and wishes to fight him next day ; but Sieglinda drugs her
husband, and comes to Siegmund. Siegmund discovers that
Sieglinda is his sister, and that his father drove a sword into
the tree so that no one can get it out. Siegmund pulls the
sword out, and commits incest with his sister.

Act II. Siegmund is to fight with Hunding. The gods
discuss the question to whom they shall award the victory.
Wotan, approving of Siegmund's incest with his sister,

228 WHAT IS ART?

wishes to spare him, but, under pressure from his wife,
Fricka, he orders the Valkyrie Briinnhilda to kill Siegmund.
Siegmund goes to fight ; Sieglinda faints. Briinnhilda ap
pears and wishes to slay Siegmund. Siegmund wishes to
kill Sieglinda also, but Briinnhilda does not allow it ; so he
fights with Hunding. Briinnhilda defends Siegmund, but
Wotan defends Hunding. Siegmund's sword breaks, and
lie is killed. Sieglinda runs away.

Act III. The Valkyries (divine Amazons) are on the
stage. The Valkyrie Briinnhilda arrives on horseback,
bringing Siegmund's body. She is flying from Wotan,
who is chasing her for her disobedience. Wotan catches
her, and as a punishment dismisses her from her post
as a Valkyrie. He casts a spell on her, so that she has
to go to sleep and to continue asleep until a man wakes
her. When someone wakes her she will fall in love with
him. Wotan kisses her ; she falls asleep. He lets off fire,
which surrounds her.

We now come to the Second Day. The gnome Mime
forges a sword in a wood. Siegfried appears. He is a son
born from the incest of brother with sister (Siegmund with
Sieglinda), and has been brought up in this wood by the
gnome. In general the motives of the actions of everybody
in this production are quite unintelligible. Siegfried learns
his own origin, and that the broken sword was his father's.
He orders Mime to reforge it, and then goes off. Wotan
comes in the guise of a wanderer, and relates what will
happen : that he who has not learnt to fear will forge the
sword, and will defeat everybody. The gnome conjectures
that this is Siegfried, and wants to poison him. Siegfried
returns, forges his father's sword, and runs off, shout
ing, Heiho ! heiho ! heiho ! Ho ! ho ! Aha ! oho ! aha !
Heiaho ! heiaho ! heiaho ! Ho ! ho ! Hahei ! hoho !
hahei !

And we get to Act II. Alberich sits guarding a giant,

/ VHA T IS ART? 229

who, in form of a dragon, guards the gold he has received.
Wotan appears, and for some unknown reason foretells that
Siegfried will come and kill the dragon. Alberich wakes
the dragon, and asks him for the ring, promising to defend
him from Siegfried. The dragon won't give up the ring.
Exit Alberich. Mime and Siegfried appear. Mime hopes
the dragon will teach Siegfried to fear. But Siegfried
does not fear. He drives Mime away and kills the dragon,
after which he puts his finger, smeared with the dragon's
blood, to his lips. This enables him to know men's secret
thoughts, as well as the language of birds. The birds tell
him where the treasure and the ring are, and also that Mime
wishes to poison him. Mime returns, and says out loud
that he wishes to poison Siegfried. This is meant to signify
that Siegfried, having tasted dragon's blood, understands
people's secret thoughts. Siegfried, having learnt Mime's
intentions, kills him. The birds tell Siegfried where Briinn-
hilda is, and he goes to find her.

Act III. Wotan calls up Erda. Erda prophesies ta
Wotan, and gives him advice. Siegfried appears, quarrels
with Wotan, and they fight. Suddenly Siegfried's sword
breaks Wotan's spear, which had been more powerful than
anything else. Siegfried goes into the fire to Briinnhilda ;.
kisses her ; she wakes up, abandons her divinity, and throws
herself into Siegfried's arms.

Third Day. Prelude. Three Xorns plait a golden rope,
and talk about the future. They go away. Siegfried and
Briinnhilda appear. Siegfried takes leave of her, gives her
the ring, and goes away.

Act I. By the Ehine. A king wants to get married, and
also to give his sister in marriage. Hagen, the king's
wicked brother, advises him to marry Briinnhilda, and to
give his sister to Siegfried. Siegfried appears ; they give
him a drugged draught, which makes him forget all the past
and fall in love with the king's sister, Gutrune. So ho rides-

230 WHAT IS ART?

off with Gunther, the king, to get Briinnhilda to be the
king's bride. The scene changes. Briinnhilda sits with the
ring, A Valkyrie comes to her and tells her that Wotan's
spear is broken, and advises her to give the ring to the
Rhine nymphs. Siegfried comes, and by means of the magic
helmet turns himself into Gunther, demands the ring from
Briinnhilda, seizes it, and drags her off to sleep with
him.

Act II. By the Eh inc. Alberich and llagen discuss how
to get the ring. Siegfried comes, tells how he has obtained
a bride for Gunther and spent the night with her, but
put a sword between himself and her. Briinnhilda rides
up, recognises the ring on Siegfried's hand, and declares
that it was he, and not Gunther, who was with her. Hagen
stirs everybody up against Siegfried, and decides to kill him
n-ext day when hunting.

Act III. Again the nymphs in the Rhine relate what has
happened. Siegfried, who has lost his way, appears. The
nymphs ask him for the ring, but he won't give it up. Hunters
appear. Siegfried tells the story of his life. Hagen then
gives him a draught, which causes his memory to return to
him. Siegfried relates how he aroused and obtained Briinn
hilda, and everyone is astonished. Hagen stabs him in the
back, and the scene is changed. Gutrune meets the corpse
of Siegfried. Gunther and Hagen quarrel about the ring, and
Hagen kills Gunther. Briinnhilda cries. Hagen wishes to
take the ring from Siegfried's hand, but the hand of the corpse
raises itself threateningly. Briinnhilda takes the ring from
Siegfried's hand, and when Siegfried's corpse is carried to
the pyre she gets on to a horse and leaps into the fire. The
Rhine rises, and the waves reach the pyre. In the river are
three nymphs. Hagen throws himself into the fire to get
the ring, but the nymphs seize him and carry him off. ' One
of them holds the ring; and that is the end of the
matter.

WHAT IS ART? 231

The impression obtainable from my recapitulation is, of
course, incomplete. But however incomplete it may be, it
is certainly infinitely more favourable than the impression
which results from reading the four booklets in which the
work is printed.

APPENDIX IV.

Translations of French poems and prose quoted in
liapter X.

BAUDELAIRE'S "FLOWERS OF EVIL."
No. XXIV.

I adore tliec as much as the vaults of night,

0 vase full of grief, taciturnity great,

And I love thee the more because of thy flight.
It seemeth, my night's beautifier, that you
Still heap up those leagues — yes ! ironically heap ! — •
That divide from my arms the immensity blue.

1 advance to attack, I climb to assault,

Like a choir of young worms at a corpse in the vault ;

Thy coldness, oh cruel, implacable beast !

Yet heightens thy beauty, on which my eyes feast !

BAUDELAIRE' K "FLOWERS OF EVIL"

No. XXXVI.
D U EL L U M.

Two warriors come running, to fight they begin,
With gleaming and blood they bespatter the air ;
These games, and this clatter of arms, is the din
Of youth that's a prey to the surgings of love.

The rapiers are broken ! and so is our youth,
But the dagger's avenged, dear ! and so is the sword,
By the nail that is steeled and the hardened tooth.
Oh, the fury of hearts aged and ulcered by love !

In the ditch, where the ounce and the pard have their lair,
Our heroes have rolled in an angry embrace ;

Their skin blooms on brambles that erewhile were bare.
232

WHAT IS ART? 233

That ravine is a friend -inhabited hell !
Then let us roll in, oh woman inhuman,
To immortalise hatred that nothing can quell !

FROM BAUDELAIRE'S PROSE WORK ENTITLED
"LITTLE POEMS."

THE STRANGER.

Whom dost thou love best ? say, enigmatical man — thy father,
thy mother, thy brother, or thy sister ?

" I have neither father, nor mother, nor sister, nor brother."

Thy friends ?

" You there use an expression the meaning of which till now remains
unknown to me. "

Thy country ?

" I ignore in what latitude it is situated."

Beauty ?

"I would gladly love her, goddess and immortal."

Gold?

" I hate it as you hate God."

Then what do you love, extraordinary stranger ?

"I love the clouds . . . the clouds that pass . . . there . . . the
marvellous clouds ! "

BAUDELAIRE'S PROSE POEM,

THE SOUP AND THE CLOUDS.

My beloved little silly was giving me my dinner, and I was con
templating, through the open window of the dining-room, those moving
architectures which God makes out of vapours, the marvellous con
structions of the impalpable. And I said to myself, amid my
contemplations, " All these phantasmagoria are almost as beautiful as
the eyes of my beautiful beloved, the monstrous little silly with the
green eyes."

Suddenly I felt the violent blow of a fist on my back, and I heard
a harsh, charming voice, an hysterical voice, as it were hoarse with
brandy, the voice of my dear little well-beloved, saying, " Are you
going to eat your soup soon, you d b of a dealer in clouds ? "

234 WHAT IS ART?

BAUDELAIRE'S PROSE POEM,
THE GALLANT MARKS MAX.

As the carriage was passing through the forest, he ordered it to be
stopped near a shooting-gallery, saying that he wished to shoot off a
few bullets to kill Time. To kill this monster, is it not the most
ordinary and the most legitimate occupation of everyone ? And he
gallantly offered his arm to his dear, delicious, and execrable wife —
that mysterious woman to whom he owed so much pleasure, so much
pain, and perhaps also a large part of his genius.

Several bullets struck far from the intended mark — one even
penetrated the ceiling ; and as the charming creature laughed madly,
mocking her husband's awkwardness, he turned abruptly towards
her and said, ' ' Look at that doll there on the right with the haughty
mien and her nose in the air ; well, dear angel, / imagine to myself
that it is you ! " And he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. The
doll was neatly decapitated.

Then, bowing towards his dear one, his delightful, execrable wife,
his inevitable, pitiless muse, and kissing her hand respectfully, he
added, " Ah ! my dear angel, how I thank you for my skill ! "

VERLAINE'S "FORGOTTEN AIRS"
No. I.

" The wind in the plain
Suspends its breath." — FAVAR.T.

Tis ecstasy languishing,
Amorous fatigue,
Of woods all the shudderings
Embraced by the breeze,
'Tis the choir of small voices
Towards the grey trees.

Oh the frail and fresh murmuring 1

The twitter and buzz,

The soft cry resembling

That's expired by the grass . . .

Oh, the roll of the pebbles

'Neath waters that pass 1

WHAT IS ART?

Oh, this soul that is groaning
In sleepy complaint !
In us is it moaning?
In me and in you '?
Low anthem exhaling
While soft falls the dew.

VERLA INE'S ' ' FORGO TTEN A IRS. '
No. VIII.

In the unending
Dulness of this land,
Uncertain the snow
Is gleaming like sand.

No kind of brightness
In copper-hued sky,
The moon you might see
Now live and now die.

Grey float the oak trees —
Cloudlike they seem —
Of neighbouring forests,
The mists in between.

Wolves hungry and lean,
And famishing crow,
What happens to you
When acid winds blow ?

In the unending
Dulness of this land,
Uncertain the snow
Is gleaming like sand.

JSOXG BY MAETERLINCK.

When he went away,
(Then I heard the door)
When he went away,
On her lips a smile there lay

236 WHAT IS ART?

Back he came to her,
(Then I heard the lamp)
Back he came to her,
Someone else was there . , .

It was death I met,

(And I heard her soul) •

It was death I met,

For her he's waiting yet . . .

Someone came to say,
(Child, I am afraid)
Someone came to say
That he would go away . . .

With my lamp alight,
(Child, I am afraid)
"With my lamp alight,
Approached I in affright . . »

To one door I came,
(Child, I am afraid)
To one door I came,
A shudder shook the flame . . .

At the second door,
(Child, I am afraid)
At the second door
Forth words the flame did pour .

To the third I came,

(Child, I am afraid)

To the third I came,

Then died the little flame . . .

Should he one day return
Then what shall we say ?
"Waiting, tell him, one

And dying for him lay . . .

If he asks for you,
Say what answer then ?
Give him my gold ring

And answer not a thing . . .

WHAT IS ART? 237

Should he question me
Concerning the last hour ?
Say I smiled for fear

That he should shed a tear . .

Should he question more
Without knowing me ?
Like a sister speak ;

Suffering he may be ...

Should he question why
Empty is the hall ?
Show the gaping door,

The lamp alight no more . . ,

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